


I Wanted to Ring out the Bells, to Fling out my Arms and to Sing out the News

by Bluebluebaby



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Canon-Compliant, F/F, First Kiss, Fluff, Pre-Canon, and SMUT, fill-in-the-blanks, with feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-07-21 20:47:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 35,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7403764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluebluebaby/pseuds/Bluebluebaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shots, filling in the gaps of Patsy and Delia before and after we know them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Lovely Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fall/Winter 1958.  
> Delia learns something about Patsy.
> 
> (Pre-canon, first kiss.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one-shot has decided to become a collection of vignettes! Stay tuned for more bits and pieces I guess! 
> 
> (HOW LONG TIL CHRISTMAS AGAIN?)

Patsy Mount was not one for vapid fluff. When other girls on the ward discussed bridal magazines and double dates and dashing leading men, she demurred and deflected, avoiding engaging in the small talk without condemning those who chose to do so.

She was informally voted "most likely to become matron" due to her love of bleach and distaste for distractions, and as such, had a bit of a reputation for taking herself rather seriously. 

So, Delia is a little taken aback to hear the gay echo of "The Farmer and the Cowman Should Be Friends" coming from her reserved friend's room one Sunday afternoon. Patsy is certainly no wet blanket, but she isn't this... Perky. 

"Pats?" She queries, peeking her head around the slightly ajar door to see the blonde scrubbing her floors to the beat of the orchestra. 

Patsy registers her presence, and her face flushes in embarrassment.  
"I'm afraid you've discovered my guilty pleasure, Delia. I suppose it was inevitable- I never seem to be much good at keeping secrets from you."

"Well, I shan't tell a soul that prim and proper Patsy has a soft spot for Rodgers and Hammerstein." 

Delia's words tease, but her smile is nothing but adoration.

"I thought you'd be out with the others- had I known I wasn't alone I would have kept the record in its sleeve." 

"I just woke up, actually. Seems I'm the only one who got Saturday night shift." 

"You poor thing." Patsy stands, brushing the fringe out of Delia's sleepy eyes. "I hope I didn't wake you ." 

They stay there for a moment, transfixed, before the chorus of "People Will Say We're in Love" reminds them of warnings given during orientation, and concerned looks from friends, and letters back home filled with everything but news of gentleman suitors. 

"You know," Delia quips, attempting to break the tension, "with this getup, you really ought to be listening to Cinderella." 

"Don't get me started on Julie Andrews, Deels! You shall surely regret it!"  
_  
Delia doesn't care for musicals and romantic comedies. She likes art houses and foreign films, films that make you think, make you question everything you've been told up to that point. 

There wasn't a theatre in Pembrokeshire, and the only time she'd been to the pictures before moving to London was on holiday with her family. 

(Her mam loves musicals.)

Patsy had always been game to see the latest obscure feature with her, even when the other nurses rolled their eyes at Delia's "hopelessly highbrow" tastes. She tried to explain once, to Pats, how much the movies meant to her, how much more than just films they were.

"It's like finding out there was a whole world you never knew existed, you never even knew you were missing, you know? All these possibilities, when you thought your life was destined to be the same as your mam's, and her mam before." 

"But there's more to life than marriage and babies, isn't there," Patsy had answered, grabbing her hand and rubbing her thumb across the back of Delia's hand. Delia thought her heart might burst with the feeling of being truly understood for the first time.

"Exactly. You always know what I mean, Pats. How is that?" 

"Perhaps we share more thoughts than most people." 

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking now, then?"  
The blonde had grinned, foxlike.  
"You could eat a horse? Let's settle for chips."  
_  
Patsy is difficult to lie to, but Delia makes excuses for her less frequent trips out with the other girls and extra overtime shifts even though she's not sure her friend believes that she's saving up for a trip back to Wales. Fortunately, she's already got a good bit of money tucked away, and she manages to procure the tickets after only a few weeks of austerity. 

The next pressing task is to find a private moment to present them to Patsy- in between work schedules and the sinking suspicion that Patsy thinks she's avoiding her, they've hardly had a private conversation since Delia walked in on Patsy's bleach and Broadway exposition. She opts to leave a note under the blonde's door. 

"Pats,  
I know it's early, but I want to give you your Christmas present! Meet me after 2nd shift tonight? You bring the booze.

Xo,  
Deels"

She hopes Patsy will forgive her enough to show up.  
_  
The knock on her door is timid (hell, they hardly ever even knock on each other's doors anymore), but nonetheless, Patience Mount in all her glory stands in Delia's threshold, nervously clutching a bottle of scotch. 

"Pats! You made it!"

Delia wastes no time with hugs or pleasantries, instead thrusting an envelope in to Patsy's hands (and grabbing the breakable bottle). 

Patsy gives her a skeptical look before gingerly opening the paper. Delia has never seen someone's jaw literally hit the floor, but Patsy's comes quite close. 

"Oh Delia. You truly might be too sweet for this earth. I can't believe you did this for me!" 

Before she knows what's hit her, Delia is wrapped up in a bear hug. Patsy smells of sterility and perfume and the faintest hint of sweat after a long shift, and Delia hopes she never has the chance to forget her scent. 

"I know it's not Julie Andrews, but it is still Cinderella."

"At the Coliseum, no less! These must have cost a fortune."

At this thought, Patsy's face turned.

"Oh, Delia, I'm afraid it really is too much. You don't even like musicals."

Delia stops her before her protests continue all night. 

"I like you, Pats, and when I saw there was a holiday pantomime I couldn't think of anything more worthy to save for."

"So you're not going home for Christmas?"

"I told my mam months ago that there was much too much work here to be done."

"You cheeky brat!" 

Patsy is all smiles as she realizes the extent of Delia's deception. 

"I knew you were up to something, but I had assumed I had done something so egregious it merited you never talking to me again!"

"You could never, Pats, not in your wildest dreams. Does that mean you'll go with me?"

"Of course. I do fear you haven't given me enough time to find the proper outfit, though."  
_

Delia is usually elated to go out with Patsy. Their outings are a blessed respite from the drudgery of male surgical. Being near the more posh nurse lightens her heart (not that it ever gets too terribly heavy. Every day in London is exciting compared to home- it's hard to get too down in the doldrums), but tonight she can't help the swell of nerves in the pit of her stomach as she waits for Patsy to get ready. 

Neither has had the boldness to declare such a thing, but this evening is most certainly a date, and an extravagant one at that. 

They used the sheer expense of the tickets as a cover for going just the two of them when inquiring minds asked about their plans for the weekend- given that all the girls made the same pay it was certainly an understandable excuse. 

(Patsy was only halfway mortified at admitting that her record collection was more musical theatre than swing or soul.) 

Patsy finally emerges from the depths of her closet wearing a beautiful emerald sheath, and Delia feels a little like the proverbial scullery maid in her more modest lilac dress and white cardigan. But it's very difficult to be jealous of Patsy when she gets to look at her all night.  
_

Patsy walks with confidence as they find their seats at the venue. She's not wont to talk much about her family, but in spaces like these, her breeding is evident against the backdrop of Delia's amazement at their surroundings. 

Cool demeanor aside, Patsy very nearly squeezes the bones out of Delia's hand when the orchestra commences the overture. 

(When asked later about the performance, Delia will use empty platitudes to describe the play. She can hardly register the spectacle before her with the heat of Patsy's fingers entwined in her own, and the brilliance of Patsy's smile, and the feeling of Patsy's gasps of elation against the skin on the back of her neck. It's the best play she's ever seen, she supplies, entirely truthfully) 

Patsy looks as though she might actually be waltzing on air as they leave the packed concert hall to wait for the bus back to Poplar in the chilly December air. 

"Oh, Delia, that was magnificent. I do hope you enjoyed it half as much as I." 

"It's a rather romantic thought, isn't it? That for one night, anything at all could be possible?" 

An unbidden lump in her throat rises up as the wind brings tears out of her eyes. Patsy's gaze is tender but strong as she calls Delia's bluff. 

"You've two hours till midnight, Busby, I suggest you make the most of it."

"Too bad curfiew is at eleven, hmmmm?" 

They lapse into silence as they board the bus, huddled together for warmth and thinking back to waltzes and ballads and the hopefulness of fairy tales. 

Once they reach the Nurses' Home, Patsy rushes Delia inside her room for the last few minutes before lights-out. 

Delia realizes her glass slipper could disappear at any moment, and she stops Patsy from pouring out a celebratory night cap.

"Thank you, Patsy."

The blonde halts, confused.

"Ought not I be thanking you?" 

"You know what I mean, Patsy. Thank you for spending your evening with me. I know you don't want for company."

She steps closer, leaving room for Patsy to move away.

"I cherish every moment I spend with you, Delia, surely you must know that by now." 

Her voice is low, and raspy, and breathless. Delia can feel the longing from them both lingering in the limited air between them. 

"Pats," she stutters, bringing her hand up to caress the other woman's cheek. 

Before she can say anything else, Patsy's lips are on hers, in a chaste yet firm kiss. Before she can even close her eyes, it's over, and Patsy is seated on her bed, checking her watch.

"You really should go, Deels, we mustn't invoke the wrath of matron after such a lovely night." 

"Right," Delia shakes herself out of her daze,

"You really are too lovely to be really true, Patsy. Good night." 

(It's nothing short of a miracle that Delia manages to make it down the hall without tripping over her feet or floating into thin air.)  
_

If Patsy finds herself humming Rodgers and Hammerstein on the ward, she chalks it up to the intoxicating magic of live theatre, and nothing more. 

She's certainly not a romantic.

She just appreciates a good musical number when she hears one.


	2. No Other Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patsy learns something about Delia. 
> 
> (Paris, 1961.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> upped the rating for this one! 
> 
> (ever-so-slightly kinky; nothin' too graphic or dark, but if it's not your thing, take heed.)

Paris is lovely. 

 

It’s everything Delia ever imagined from all the books and films and songs she voraciously consumed. And with Patsy by her side, it truly does feel as if the city is welcoming them as lovers, in a way Poplar never could. They see all the landmarks, purchase souvenirs, sample the finest patisserie (buying doubles of her favorites for Sister Monica Joan); she will have plenty to tell the girls about their holiday when they return to Nonnatus. Patsy is an incredibly adept planner, and Delia will compliment her thusly, recommending that they should all enlist Nurse Mount as their travel agent while inwardly hoping that none of them ever follow through with the idea. 

 

The pièce de resistance of Patsy’s logistical prowess is not the sight-seeing itinerary, nor the impeccably researched schedule of entertainment and dining options during their week’s stay. Patsy has managed to procure not a hotel room, nor a bed and breakfast, but an honest-to-god rented private flat for seven blissful days. 

 

She insists on secrecy regarding their lodgings, going so far as to blindfold Delia with her silk scarf as she guides her up the steps to the  _ appartement _ . 

 

“Oh, Pats!” Delia pauses in wonder. “But how?” 

 

Patsy blushes. 

 

“My father still has a few connections in the city. I may have called in a favour.”  

 

She rushes past her embarrassment with more background on the procurement.

 

“Monsieur LeGrand is a confirmed bachelor who keeps a meticulously tidy home, and he is traveling on business for the entirety of the month. He assured me that the walls are thick, the neighbors are decidedly un-nosy, and the mattress is  _ comme dormir sur un nuage _ . “

 

For all Patsy has done to distance herself from her posh roots, Delia knows that it couldn’t have been easy to ask for nepotism, much less accept it. 

 

She feels her accent grow thicker with emotion, words lilting out of her mouth clumsily around the lump in her throat. 

 

“Patience Mount, may you never cease to surprise me.” 

 

Patsy grins, grasping Delias hands and bringing her in for a chaste kiss. 

 

“Shall we unpack?” 

“No,” Delia smirks,”It can wait.” 

_ 

 

Making love with Patsy has always been rather delicate. 

 

(Delia cringes inwardly at the term, but isn’t that what it is? Taking silence, and secrecy, and  _ nothingness  _ and transforming it into something tangible, ecstatic,  _ holy _ ? Sex hardly seems an apt descriptor for the act of being with Patsy. And the nuns would probably wholly disagree on the definition thereof. Which… is not a conversation Delia ever wants to have, but she can’t say she’s not imagined Sisters Julienne and Evangelina debating the bible’s calls to procreation while Monica Joan quotes the Song of Solomon.) 

 

Touches that were initially hesitant, unsure, have metamorphosed over the years into gestures of worship, tenderness, awareness of the fragility of every moment they have together. 

 

Patsy always has one eye open, one hand ready to push off her weight, to distance their bodies at the slightest sound of intrusion. 

 

Too many nights have ended with an apology, and the lingering imprint of Patsy’s nimble fingers along her heated skin. 

 

(Delia is not nearly so gentle with herself.) 

 

Maybe it’s the freedom of the flat, or the pent-up regret of having believed that they would have so many more nights of privacy in their London digs. Perhaps it is simply the excitement of being in a strange place, among strange people, who could care less about their moral turpitude, but their kisses escalate with a speed that would be shocking to Delia if she weren’t so caught up in how incredible it feels to love without reservation. 

 

Patsy pulls away, out of reflex, when Delia begins to moan against the teasing sweeps of her tongue. 

 

“Maybe we should slow down.” 

 

“Why?” 

 

Delia fixes her with her best determined glare. 

 

“Well… I don’t know actually,” Patsy laughs, but she’s already doused the flames enough that they remain an arm’s length apart. 

 

Delia is tired of waiting. 

 

“Pats,” she begins, untying the belt of the redhead’s trench coat and making quick work of the buttons along the collar of her blouse, “You said it yourself.”

 

She brushes a strand of hair behind Patsy’s ear. 

 

“The walls are thick.” 

 

(Plants a kiss along a chiseled jawline.) 

 

“The neighbors aren’t nosy.” 

 

(Trails her fingers down the vee of Patsy’s exposed collarbone.) 

 

“Shall we see if the claims about the mattress are to be believed?” 

 

Delia turns and walks to the bedroom, unzipping her frock and letting it pool on the floor. 

_

 

Perhaps Delia is to blame for what happens next. 

 

She did antagonize Patsy after all. 

 

The taller woman pins her to the bed with a searing kiss, and they very quickly get just as carried away as before. 

 

So carried away, that Patsy’s nails dig into Delia’s back, and her teeth graze the side of her neck more than a little ungently. 

 

Delia lets out a sharp gasp, and Patsy pulls away, instantly remorseful. 

 

“Oh, darling, have I hurt you?” 

 

But when Patsy inspects Delia’s face, she sees no signs of injury, or even shock. Delia’s eyes are closed tightly, her breath hitched in taut anticipation. 

 

“Deels?” 

 

Patsy’s tone is soft, curious, not wanting to break whatever spell has befallen her beloved. 

 

When Delia’s eyes finally snap open to lock with hers, they are ice and flame and  _ want.  _

 

“Pats.  _ Please. _ ”

 

Patsy has not once, in all her years of knowing her (in all her ways of knowing her) heard Delia  _ beg.  _

 

Her heart nearly bursts out her ears in response to the wanton moans Delia gives with each gesture of possession. 

 

Teeth pulling at her earlobe, hot breath against her neck. 

 

Nails scraping their way up shapely thighs, tracing marks that fade the instant Patsy’s fingers move to their next target. 

 

Patsy thinks the mattress might actually be a cloud, for Delia soars when she comes, floating in suspended elation before burying her face in Patsy’s neck as they breathe each other in.

_

 

“Thank you.” 

 

Delia’s voice is uncharacteristically shy. Her eyes drift down toward the now rumpled sheet as she feels Patsy’s gaze upon her. 

 

“Delia, I really feel as though I ought to be the one expressing thanks.” She squeezes the brunette’s hand in reassurance. “Sometimes I think you might be too magnificent to truly exist.” 

 

But Delia is having none of it, brushing off the adoration to chastise herself. 

 

“I should have said something before. I shouldn’t have just sprung that on you, what a terrible position to put you in-”

 

“-Deels, it’s all right. I promise.” 

 

Delia gathers her wits, pushing back the tears that have been threatening to spill, from relief; from exhaustion; from fear. 

 

She suspects that those who find themselves on the other end of Patsy’s scrutiny where hygiene and promptness are concerned might find her moniker ironic, but when it comes to Delia, Patience epitomizes her name. 

 

“I  _ was  _ planning to say something, after we moved in together, after we had some privacy.”

 

Patsy hums, in assent, and grief, and more than a little yearning. 

 

“I suppose we haven’t had much room to talk about such things.” 

 

They lay in silence a moment, thinking about the nosy ears of the Nurses’ home; the omniscience of the sisters of Nonnatus. 

 

“But you’ve thought about it? About me, being… rougher with you?” 

 

Delia blushes deeper, but ever the bold one, meets Patsy’s eyes with a clear intensity. 

 

“I remember, not long after we’d known each other, seeing you giving a patient on the ward the talking-to of his life.”

 

Patsy blushes herself at the memory; she’s certainly still stern sometimes, but on male surgical her venom ran rather more freely. 

 

“And I thought to myself, ‘I don’t know that I would much mind being at the mercy of Patience Mount.’” 

 

“That fellow certainly did- he nearly had me fired, I’ll have you know!” 

 

She reflects on the mere girls they were then; the women they are now. 

 

“I’m not upset, Delia, surely you know that.” 

 

Patsy smiles inwardly. “And I think that given your reaction to this evening’s events, it was probably for the best that we didn’t attempt anything of the sort in shared quarters.” 

 

“Well, Nurse Mount, you are quite effective with those hands when you wish to be,” Delia spits back, voice sharp but eyes smiling.

 

Patsy laces their fingers together, running her thumb over the soft skin of Delia’s knuckles. 

 

“You looked… transcendent. I’ve never seen anything like it.” 

 

She turns from her back onto her side to nestle closer to Delia, whispering even though their privacy means such precautions aren’t necessary tonight. 

 

“Could you tell me about it? I want to understand. I want to be there with you, darling.” 

 

Delia gathers her thoughts.

 

Years’ worth of muddled longings and false starts linger, along with the ever present fear that she would be asking too much, to be touched this way.

  
  


“I know we can’t get married, Pats, but we’ve talked about promising ourselves to one another, about how we would if we could, before god and friends and family.” 

 

Patsy nods, confused but intrigued as to where this is going. 

 

“I trust you. With my secrets, with my heart, with every fiber of my being. So, asking you to take me, it’s more… giving myself to you, with everything I have. Letting you know I’m yours, in every way that you would have me.” 

 

(In all the ways Patsy could have thought they would have this conversation, she could never have imagined being moved to tears. But Delia Busby has been defying her imagination since the day they met.) 

 

“Whatever would I do without you, Delia?” 

 

Her words are hoarse and heavy as they rasp against Delia’s luminous skin. 

 

“I hope you shall never have to find out again.” 

_

 

Patsy has never been adept at accepting kindness from others. 

 

But for the week she embraces all that Delia offers.

 

Her hand, through the crowds in front of the Louvre in the golden light of afternoon. 

 

Her smile, over café au lait and croissants in the early bustle of morning. 

 

Her body, under the glow of the streetlamp through the window of their rented room. 

 

It is not quite the life they planned.

 

But it is the life they have made, and it is more than enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to just group my one shots here for now. 
> 
> If you're the prompting sort, feel free to hit me up on tumblr @blueblue-baby


	3. Some Enchanted Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Full moons and new friends. 
> 
>  
> 
> (September, 1961.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy full moon, friends! I work in healthcare, and I don't know if patients become more agitated or if staff create a self-fulfilling prophecy, but let me tell you, this week has been exhausting. 
> 
> May this vignette give you a little respite from the drudgery :D

It seemed Monica Joan’s predictions about full moons held true tonight. Poplar is abuzz with new life waiting to emerge under lunar light, and all the midwives have been called out in rapid succession.

 

Patsy is exhausted as she dismounts her bicycle, but when her eyes light upon Delia walking back to Nonnatus from her shift at the London, she feels her aches and pains dissipate. 

 

“Pats!” 

 

Delia’s soft lilt echoes through the crisp night air. 

 

Even under darkness, Patsy can’t help but blush. Seeing Delia still feels like Christmas come early, each and every time. 

 

She notes that hers is the only bike on the rack. 

 

“It would appear that we are alone, Nurse Busby.” 

 

“Is that so?” 

 

Delia entwines her arm and leads her out to the garden, where they perch on a bench Patsy designates “theirs,” if only in her private thoughts. 

 

“Aren’t you cold, Delia? You haven’t even got a cardigan on.” 

 

No matter how hot the day is, nightfall brings a chill. 

 

“I’ll manage, Patsy. I’ve got my love to keep me warm, haven’t I? Besides,” she pauses, looking at the moon for confirmation,  “I quite like the thought that we have a standing date on full moons. It’s like she’s looking out for us.” 

 

Delia’s smile shines brighter than any moonbeam, and Patsy can’t help but match her grin for grin, silly as the idea of lunar benevolence is. 

 

“Hmm, well I suppose I can lend my body heat if it gets me a few moments alone with you.” 

 

Wordlessly, Delia stands and beckons Patsy to join her as she hums, swaying her hips and snapping her fingers. 

 

It’s incredibly improper (they’re both in uniform), but Patsy knows that she was the first to leave and her birth was incredibly easy, and the sisters have retired to bed post-compline. 

When all they have are stolen moments, this one seems offered rather freely.

 

Patsy perches her head on the shorter woman’s shoulder, insistent on burying her face in Delia’s neck despite their height difference. 

 

As Delia continues humming “ _ A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square _ ” into her ear, a distinctly older voice ricochets across the courtyard in recitation.

 

“ _ Then, as the broad moon rose on high/The maidens stood the altar nigh;/And some in graceful measure/The well-loved spot danced round/With lightsome footsteps treading/The soft and grassy ground _ . “

Sister Monica Joan beams when she reaches the young nurses, now standing an arm’s length apart with quizzical expressions on their faces. 

“Sister, shouldn’t you be in bed?” Delia asks, gently. 

“Nurse Busby! You come from Celtic stock! Surely you understand the importance of communing with the moon when she has made herself manifest before us. There is no acknowledgement of celestial wonders in compline, and I cannot rest peacefully knowing such splendor shines out here.” 

“But of course,” Patsy agrees. “Would you care to take a seat with us, sister?” 

Delia gives her a brief cross look as Monica Joan moves to perch between them. 

(The bench doesn’t quite sit three.)

 

She can’t, however, complain of cold with the thick wool of the nun’s habit rubbing against her arms each time Monica Joan moves to point out a constellation with childlike glee. 

With no preamble, Monica Joan stands and marches back inside the convent, saying only, “The moon has had enough visitors for tonight, and she wishes to shine away from prying eyes. I bid her, and you, good night.” 

“I suppose we should follow her lead,” Delia quips. “I wouldn’t want to anger the moon- I have great plans for next month, I’ll have you know.” 

They hurry inside after the sister, taking care to tread lightly. Sister Winifred is on phone duty tonight, and she settles for a thumbs up and a smile from Patsy as update enough on her delivery before waving them on upstairs. 

“We should probably get cleaned up,” Delia whispers, as they stand outside her door. 

“But after? If the coast is still clear?” Patsy tries to keep the hope out of her voice, to keep the question neutral. 

“I’m all yours, Pats.” 

_

Patsy and Delia are the first at the breakfast table in the morning, grateful for any sliver of shared time, no matter how brief, or how public. Again, as if summoned by some supernatural force, Monica Joan waltzes in from the kitchen, jam-jar in hand. 

“Last night, I dreamed in verse,” she states, twirling around her spoon as if to conjure the rest of her thought. 

 

“The Song of Solomon, in fact.” 

 

She puffs out her chest in oration:

 

“ ‘ _ Behold, you are beautiful, my beloved, truly delightful. _

_ Our couch is green; _

_ the beams of our house are cedar; _

__ _ our rafters are pine.’” _

 

“But there is no cedar here,” She continues after a brief pause, in dialogue with only herself, “and our rafters are of oak, not of pine.” 

 

Patsy has learned that the best way to engage with Monica Joan’s moments of inconvenient prescience is to continue on as if nothing has happened- fortunately Nurse Crane arrives in short order to berate the nun for once more depleting the reserve of preserves. 

 

Delia gives her a quick apologetic look, but the wicked grin that follows erases any gesture of remorse. 

 

Patsy rolls her eyes behind her tea cup, knowing full well that they were much too quiet to be heard by anyone, try though Delia might sometimes. 

 

Breakfast passes much too quickly, as the others trickle in after a sleep-deprived night. Patsy gives Delia a rueful smile as she heads out for rounds, knowing that Delia could have slept in given her shift schedule, but incredibly grateful for the subtle gestures of devotion they’ve weaved into their routine. 

 

Delia clears the table out of habit before moving into the living room to read her book for a few hours. The stillness of the convent mid-morning is more peaceful than night’s expectant quiet, and Monica Joan wordlessly joins her on the sofa. 

 

After a moment, Delia realizes the nun is staring at her. It’s unexpected to be the silent subject of Monica Joan’s attention- she is seldom devoid of commentary on the world around her. Delia sets down her novel (it was rather dreary anyhow) and meets the sister’s watery blue gaze. 

 

“Nurse Mount and I come from patrician backgrounds. She understands that wealth does not bring happiness, in fact it often precludes it.” 

 

Delia, always thrilled to talk about Patsy with anyone who will listen, obliges. 

 

“I wouldn’t know from experience, but I suspect you’re correct, Sister.” 

 

“But you have a spirit like mine, Nurse Busby. You defy convention.” 

 

Delia laughs at Monica Joan’s frankness. 

 

“Have you been speaking with my mother?” 

 

“Does your mother know for whom she named you?  _ Delia,  _ deriving from the Greek  _ Delos,  _ the home of the goddess Artemis.”

 

“With all due respect, Sister, my mother would probably be mortified to realize I do not have a good Christian name.” 

 

Monica Joan hums in agreement, searching her brain for the remnant of her train of thought before it disappears. 

 

“Artemis surrounded herself with the company of virgins, and protected her chastity by any means necessary. I think, perhaps, that you share her tenacity in the face of unwanted advances.”

 

Delia blushes, but Monica Joan continues on, undeterred. 

 

“I sometimes wonder how my life might have differed if I had not chosen to heed the call of the church. Wealth does not offer happiness, but it does offer freedoms, however unspoken. I often think of how I might have lived as a young woman, free of attachment, but wondering does not change our lives as they are, does it, Nurse Busby?”

 

Delia thinks of her own interminable wonderings, of the feeling of being trapped in a body that bore scars she could not recall receiving, of chasing fragments of memory and imagination to dead ends of despair, of remembering, too late, just how and why she had made the choices that led her to break her mother’s heart in the first place. 

 

“I don’t know that it does, Sister. It seems like sometimes it opens up Pandora’s box.” 

 

Monica Joan beams, and Delia is immensely grateful for the book of Greek Myths she borrowed from the Library last year. 

 

“Nurse Busby, did you know also that Artemis felt called by the fates to midwifery? Perhaps you were more meant for the vocation than you realize.” 

 

“I don’t know that that argument would brook well against my mother’s objections.” 

 

Monica Joan stiffens in remembrance of past pain. 

 

“I know well, too, the difficulty of disappointing one’s parents. But calls are made to be answered, from fates or from god or from women in need of assistance. We are what we serve.” 

 

Delia processes the nun’s words, thinking of the odd similarities between Monica Joan and her mother. The grain of truth beneath euphemistic language, the matter-of-fact tone leaving no room for debate. 

 

But Monica Joan’s perception has always underneath it a layer of kindness and compassion. Delia feels seen and accepted by the elder woman in a way she never has with her mam. 

 

She shakes herself out of the fog of her thoughts to thank the nun, but Monica Joan has already disembarked to forage for the remnants of yesterday’s Victoria Sponge. 

_

 

Patsy arrives early for lunch- a uniform malfunction has necessitated a change of clothes and a vigorous scrubdown before she is again suitable for human company. As she begins her ascent upstairs, she sees Delia and Sister Monica Joan huddled over the coffee table in the living room, poring over some dusty tome as the nun laughs and gesticulates with wild abandon. 

 

Once refreshed, she returns downstairs to find Delia alone, lovingly replacing the book upon a communal shelf. 

 

“I haven’t seen Monica Joan so happy since Sister Evangelina passed. She likes you.” 

 

“I like her,” Delia beams, all dimples. “We understand each other.” 

 

That puzzles Patsy a bit, given the gaps in age and cognitive functioning between the two.

 

“Should I be concerned?” 

 

Delia frowns, almost pugnacious as she jumps to the defense of the eccentric nun, but she takes a moment to pause and collect her thoughts before she and Patsy have a true row. 

 

“She knows what it’s like to forget yourself.” 

 

“Oh, Delia, how thoughtless of me.” Patsy turns her eyes down in shame. “I’m so sorry.” 

 

“Don’t be.” Delia reaches for her hand, reminding her that she is  _ here, with her, right now.  _

 

“It’s not your fault, Pats, and it’s not mine, but it did happen.” 

 

She wipes away a few stray tears with the back of her hand, stifling an incredulous laugh. 

 

“I’m not even sure Monica Joan knows about my amnesia, but she’s certainly not dull company.” 

 

Patsy smiles, in awe of this beautiful, brave, endlessly surprising woman she is fortunate enough to love and be loved by, when Monica Joan returns, another tome in hand. 

 

“Polyphonte herself! Come, Nurse Mount, the noon hour is near, and our work is far from done.” 

 

Patsy half-listens to the sister’s explanations of their urgent mission, more focused on the picture of Delia before her. 

 

She thinks of her enthusiasm for lectures and notes and  _ knowledge,  _ the joy she put in every lesson that the other students dismissed as boring drudgery. 

 

She recalls Delia’s delight at realizing that there  _ were  _ others like them, how she devoured every single bit of information she could get on the subject, never once feeling any sort of shame at her subject of research. 

 

She remembers the way Delia’s face lit up in amazement at the wonder of two bodies in love, and what they could do. Her studious attention to detail, the magnificent rewards of her meticulous effort. 

 

She looks at Delia absorbing the ins and outs of a history she has no practical use for knowing, and sees the insatiable curiosity that drew her to the brunette in the first place. Delia looks happy, and confident, and  _ alive. _

  
She looks like she belongs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MJ's first quote is Sappho, translated by Moreton J. Walhouse.
> 
> We all love Monica Joan and Delia together, right? I do think they are rather soulmates, separated by a few decades. They could have had terribly exciting adventures under different circumstances. 
> 
> As always, I love a prompt. 
> 
> Feel free to say hello on Tumblr @blueblue-baby


	4. You'll Never Walk Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during 4x03. 
> 
> (Inspired by conversations with @whenthecanonshootsonlyblanks about Delia's absence from the episode)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life has been kicking my ass lately, but I hope to get out of my funk and back to writing more soon. 
> 
> Suggestions always welcomed on tumblr @blueblue-baby

Delia would have thought she’s well past getting stood up at this point. 

 

It’s been almost two years since the last time Patsy had bowed out on her under a flimsy excuse, only to knock on her door with a tearful apology, followed by a desperate kiss. Since then, any cancelled date has been followed by a remorseful phone call, card, or, on one occasion, flowers. 

 

(Well, actually, they were dandelions, sent by command of Sister Monica Joan, but Delia’s favorite color is yellow, and they did brighten up her sparse quarters at the nurses’ home for a few days, weed or no.) 

 

But now it’s been three days since Delia wasted half an evening alone at the Silver Buckle, (an evening they had planned two weeks ahead of time), leaving after her coffee grew cold and her coin purse grew empty. There are only a few songs she likes on the jukebox anyways, and it’s no good choosing sentimental numbers without a target for looks of affection. 

 

There have been no notes, no calls, no flowers  _ or  _ weeds, and Delia is more than a little convinced that Patsy has taken to changing her bicycle routes so that they don’t even have serendipitous meetings on the street. 

 

She is not happy. 

 

Delia is rarely upset. Hurt, maybe, or perhaps annoyed (particularly at some of her more lecherous patients), but anger is not familiar to her body. Her muscles feel like molten iron, her heart pounding away like a blacksmith at his anvil. Without conscious thought, her legs carry her to Nonnatus House, the fatigue of her shift evaporating under the flame of her mounting ire. 

 

_

 

Fortunately, Delia gathers her wits in the interim between knocking at the convent’s heavy door and meeting the bright-eyed grin of Trixie. So when Nurse Franklin chipperly greets, “ _ Delia! What a surprise! We missed you at the Rose Queen- I would have thought you would have helped Patsy with the Cubs, _ ” Delia can reply, “ _ Oh, work has been an absolute madhouse- this evening was the first I’ve had free in nearly a month it seems _ ,” in

stead of showering the blonde with every Welsh epithet she has at her disposal. 

 

“ Patsy has decided to use my absence from our room as an invitation to scrub the floors until they’re suitably reflective for her to apply mascara sans mirror. I suspect she might need a little break herself- she’s been awfully tense lately. On with you!” 

 

Delia should hear the note of concern in Trixie’s voice before she’s ushered upstairs, but the hammering of her pulse in her ears has kept her temper right on course. 

 

“Patience Mount,” She scolds, marching through the open doorway with no warning. 

 

(It’s more of a whisper than a yell, really- Nonnatus makes it very difficult to forget the presence of nuns.) 

 

“ _ gallai i ladd chi.” _

 

Just before she can get in the full swing of her native tongue, Patsy looks up from where she’s knelt on the floor, white as the bedsheets she so carefully bleaches. 

 

“Delia.” 

 

Her name is an apology and an admission of guilt and a prayer for forgiveness all at once, and Delia quickly moves to close the door behind her as Patsy’s stalwart facade crumbles into a deluge of tears. 

 

The anger evaporates, forgotten as soon as Delia takes Patsy in her arms, pulling her off of her bruised knees onto the twin bed. 

 

“Sweetheart, talk to me. You know it doesn’t help to hide. Not anymore, love.” 

 

“But Delia, I had to, you see. If they  _ knew,  _ oh, people can be so cruel, so awfully cruel. The way they treated Mrs. Amos, not to mention Tony.” 

 

Delia briefly recalls titters of gossip around the newspaper among her peers, the whispers of what “that man” had done, how sick and wrong it was. It had never occurred to her that Patsy had any connection to the crime blotter. 

 

“Can you tell me what happened?” 

 

As Patsy recounts all the details of the past few weeks, her sobs subside and her righteous anger at the world’s injustices returns. 

 

“And Trixie voiced sympathy, but said it wasn’t our battle to fight. As if, in order for  _ anything  _ to change, a queer David will have to face Goliath on his own, with no help from people who have nothing whatsoever to lose.” 

 

Delia nods in agreement, recalling conversations with other nurses who were more than happy to act as a beard for a doctor in need but had little interest in publicly condemning laws against homosexuality. 

 

(The idea that many of the spinsters they knew might not, in fact,  _ be  _ spinsters didn’t seem to register with most, however.)

 

“It does sound like you’ve got Sister Monica Joan on your side, at least. I never did really thank her for those flowers.” 

 

Despite the angst of the evening, Patsy can’t keep a small grin from reaching the corner of her mouth. 

 

“Yes, well, she makes a point that Christians are meant to be followers of Jesus, and not Paul, and that Christ preferred the company of outcasts for a reason.” 

 

“Is that why she likes me so?” 

 

Patsy rolls her eyes at Delia’s posturing. 

 

“I am sorry, though. For standing you up. I hope you’ll let me make it up to you? I’ve time for at least a coffee if you do?” 

 

_

 

“You know, I think that this might be the one area where woman have an advantage,” Delia opines, stirring more milk into her cup. 

 

“Because we don’t deign to meet in public washrooms?”  

 

Patsy’s face contorts in revulsion at the thought of all the germs present in such a space.

 

“Well that,” Delia laughs,”and the fact that women are permitted to be close with one another, to be affectionate with their friends. How many little boys do you see outgrow hugging their mates, not to mention their family members?” 

 

“I suppose you have a point,” Patsy ponders, recalling the boys of Poplar, how even her young cubs have begun to feel the pressure of expectations of what a man should be. 

 

“Men are hardly allowed to love their wives openly, much less other men. I can’t imagine how hard it must be, to have only the scarcest, scantest parts of the life you want.” 

 

Patsy grabs Delia’s hand, under the table, holding to the bits and pieces she  _ can _ have.

 

“I don’t know where I would be without you, Deels. Thank you for not giving up on me.” 

 

Delia’s icy blue eyes meet her own, vows and promises and memories of mountains already climbed transpiring across the table. 

 

“I could never give up on you. Not if you got a job on the moon and I had to send you love letters by satellite.” 

 

“Well, if anyone could do such a thing, it would be Delia Busby- she’s awfully stubborn when she’s put her mind to something, I’ll have you know.” 

 

“I’ve found my efforts have been quite effective in getting what I want, I’ll have  _ you  _ know,” Delia beams, recalling the alternate thrill and terror of courting Patience Mount. 

 

“And have you? Got what you want, that is?” 

 

Patsy’s gaze drops, thinking of how easy it was to disappear this time, how heartless she had been in trying to protect them both. How she knows that Delia wants to love her out loud, free of fear, and she’s not sure she will ever be ready for such a thing, no matter the laws. 

 

Delia waits for Patsy’s eyes to return to hers before she answers.

 

“I just want you to be happy, Pats. That’s all I will ever want.” 

 

Patsy has never questioned her efficiency and value as a nurse, but there have been so many moments when her faith in her own worthiness has faltered. She is not used to the world being kind to her. 

 

It may yet be cruel, but the woman before her has love enough to weather the strongest storm. 

 

Delia’s solemn stare quickly turns into an impish grin as she stuffs the last bite of patisserie into her mouth. 

  
“And I would love for you to quit that ghastly smoking habit, but beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IS IT CHRISTMAS YET?


	5. I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Extra scene for 5x06 
> 
> (Or, the one where men are the worst.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to @Think_Busby_Think for the prompt! 
> 
> #banmen

“Sometimes I think Dr. Turner is the only halfway-decent man in the world.” 

 

Patsy shudders in recollection of Dr. Godfrey’s condescension. 

 

Delia smirks. 

 

“Not even Fred?” 

 

“He might be a quarter-decent. But no woman would ever manage to get on in the world being as bumbling as he is.” 

 

Delia hums in agreement, thinking back to the first time she met the cubs, and the ensuing effort to restock the supply of burn cream in her first-aid kit. 

 

“We do have to be twice as good to get half as far, don’t we?” 

 

“Most women have to do that Delia. We’ve got to be about ten times as good, just to be beyond reproach.” 

 

It’s not that they don’t find fulfillment in their volunteer duties, but it is rather tiresome sometimes to sacrifice what little time they have off in the name of community service.

 

(Better scouts and ambulances than gentleman callers, though.) 

 

“I think you’d like my dad.”

 

Patsy can’t help but laugh. 

 

“Perhaps, but I don’t believe your mother would ever allow us to meet. I might corrupt him,” she winks. 

 

Delia rolls her eyes. 

 

“She seems to think he and I are both painfully naive and must be protected from the sins of the world at all costs.” 

 

She tilts her head in thought. 

 

“It must be the dimples.”

 

“It’s only because she cares about you, Delia. I can’t say I agree with her methods, but she does love you. You and I both know not everyone has such a concerned parent.” 

 

(Poplar is a loving community, but it has its share of broken homes and shattered hearts.)

 

“You should have seen the way she went off on my teacher when he told her I was being unladylike by embarrassing the boys with my exam scores.” 

 

She smiles at the memory of her mother’s ire turned on a deserving target. 

 

“I’ll take mother knows best over doctor knows best anyday.” 

 

“I must say, I would pay good money to see Nurse Crane eviscerate him again.” 

 

“I wish there were more Dr. Turners in Male Surgical and fewer Dr. Godfreys,” Delia muses, a hint of dread creeping into her voice at the thought of her next shift. 

 

Patsy’s brow furrows in concern. 

 

“Did something happen on the ward?” 

 

Delia shakes her head. 

 

“Nothing egregious, not to me at least, it’s just all so very demoralizing.” 

 

“Don’t I know it.” 

 

“And after that delivery with Roseanne... “ 

 

Patsy beams in pride. 

 

(She will never cease to be awed by the wonder that is Delia Busby.) 

 

“Delia, are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?” 

 

“That depends. Are you thinking that I’m thinking of training in midwifery?” 

 

Patsy answers her with a kiss, her lips stretched thin with the force of her smile. 

 

“I knew you would tire of men soon enough,” she quips. 

 

“Well, I’ll still get my fill with St. John, don’t you worry.” 

 

“I can just imagine you holding a newborn baby,” Patsy swoons, “hearing his first words in a welsh accent.” 

 

“Have you ever imagined that before?” 

 

“You as a midwife? Not before the other evening, no offense.” 

 

Delia smiles, gentle and hopeful. 

 

“No, me as a mother. Or you, however the cards should fall.” 

 

Patsy stills, the weight of Delia’s words sinking in. 

 

“You want a family?” 

 

“Well, I already told you I wanted to marry you. Isn’t a family part of that whole package?” 

 

“Before the pill, certainly.”

Patsy shoots her a lopsided smile. 

“I hate to burst your bubble, darling, but I’m afraid we won’t have that problem.” 

 

Delia smirks. 

 

“And here I’ve been trying so very hard to get you pregnant.” 

 

Patsy guffaws before entwining Delia’s shorter fingers with her own. 

 

“You would be a splendid mother, Delia. I would never want to keep you from having a family.” 

 

Delia’s blue eyes turn to grey steel. 

 

“It’s not a family if it doesn’t have you in it.” 

 

Patsy feels a lump rise in her throat, and suddenly, words are no longer enough. 

 

She pins the brunette to the twin bed, and thoughts of men are blissfully forgotten.  

 

_

 

Patsy can’t help but pause at the banister when she sees Nurse Crane giving Dr. Godfrey the tongue-lashing of his life following Trixie’s arduous night. 

 

“Your presumption and arrogance almost cost a woman her life, Dr. Godfrey, so I dare say that your outdated expertise is not needed here!” 

 

Dr. Godfrey merely trails off with a bemused expression on his face, largely unaware of the impact of his actions. Nurse Crane turns to look Patsy dead in the eye. 

 

“Nurse Mount, your silence gives you away.”

 

She pauses, for effect. 

“I think you and Nurse Busby might do well to remember that.” 

 

Patsy feels her face flush, and she stumbles to think of an adequate response, but Nurse Crane touches her arm in consolation. 

 

“Us girls have to look out for each other. Do you understand?” 

 

Patsy nods meekly. 

 

“I apologize for losing my composure with Dr. Godfrey. I’m afraid that my anger at men is perhaps inordinately amplified by Sister Mary Cynthia’s assault.” 

 

“I don’t think anything about that was inordinate, Nurse Crane.” 

 

The older woman grunts in agreement. 

 

“Phyllis. In the interest of solidarity.” 

 

“Thank you, Phyllis. For looking out for us girls.” 

 

Phyllis thinks of Mary Cynthia, locked away from the cruel world all morning. And of Trixie, who has battled her own demons so bravely. She thinks of Barbara’s sometimes frustrating naivete, and how this gaggle of giggling girls has become a family of remarkable young women. 

 

Her family, as it were. 

 

“Your Delia is a fine addition to Nonnatus House. I shall be sad to see the two of you leave when the time comes.” 

 

(Patsy thinks Nurse Crane and Sister Monica Joan must sometimes sit and talk for hours together without directly saying anything.) 

 

“I don’t expect we could ever be strangers. Delia wouldn’t allow it.” 

 

Patsy can’t help the smile that emerges at the image of Delia hosting all the Nonnatuns at their flat. In earlier dreams, she had kept her distance from her colleagues, but now that Delia has befriended the other nurses, any home they keep is sure to be filled to the brim with visitors. 

 

Phyllis squeezes her hand. 

 

“Whatever happens, you have my blessing.” 

 

The compassion quickly evaporates from her features as she straightens up, preparing for battle. 

 

“Now what do you way we endeavor to clean up the mess of that foolish physician?” 

 

Patsy shoulders her bag and follows Nurse Crane towards the clinic. 

 

“A woman’s work is never done.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Anybody else headcanon Phyllis as getting swept up in the loosened morals of wartime with women as well as men? She gets it, is all I'm saying.)


	6. Many a New Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delia at home between the accident and Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all, the pupcake writing has been so on-point and you all have inspired me to crank out some more of our favorite welshwoman (Mrs. Busby, obv.) 
> 
> This is less fluffy than usual, but I'm fascinated by the possibilities of what happened when Delia was back home. 
> 
> (Also, I read a lot of Oliver Sacks in college.)

Delia has never been so tired in her life. 

 

(Not that she would remember.)

 

For the first few weeks, it seems that all she does is sleep, woken only by the gentle voice of her mother imploring her to “ _ please try and eat a little something cariad, for your strength.”  _

 

Days blend together in a blur of shadow and sun through the windows, the odd trip down the hall to the restroom. She doesn’t dream. 

 

But she doesn’t seize either, and Delia senses the nerves of her parents quieting with each hour without an episode. 

_

 

It’s a grey Wednesday morning when Delia rolls out of bed at a halfway decent hour, feeling a chill against her bare feet. Her legs are weaker than they were in London, her body pale and slender from its dormancy. At the unexpected sound of her labored footsteps, her mother starts. 

 

“Love, is everything alright? What can I get you? You aren’t feeling dizzy or like a spell is coming on, are you?” 

 

“I’m fine mam. But I would like a cup of coffee, if that won’t kill me.” 

 

Her voice is still raspy from unuse, her words measured, but more confident than they have been in weeks. 

 

Her mother smiles at hearing her name again. Delia has a long way to go from being back to her old self, but she knows her family now, knows her home. It’s enough to inspire a wealth of gratitude in the older woman. 

 

“Love, we don’t keep coffee. But I would be happy to make you a cup of tea, well sugared with milk?” 

 

Delia pauses briefly, before replying “That would be splendid. Thank you.” 

 

As her mother putters about the small kitchen making everything just so, Delia contemplates the source of her yearning. She surmises that she must have drunk coffee in London, but there’s an emotional element to her desire beyond mere caffeine withdrawal. 

 

She’s shaken from her thoughts by her mother doting. 

 

“Don’t force yourself to remember, cariad. The doctor said time and rest will help more than anything.” 

 

Delia smiles thinly, not wanting to worry her mother any more than she has already. 

 

_ 

 

Delia slowly builds up her strength, and finds herself assisting her mother with the tasks of housekeeping (adventures out of doors are still strictly prohibited). 

 

They’re stood at the stove working on dinner before her father gets home, Delia peeling carrots while her mother chops an onion. 

 

Delia stares at her seemingly useless hands. 

 

“I know relearning things is going to be difficult, but this seems exceedingly complicated.” 

 

Her mother laughs, which Delia by now remembers is rather rare. 

 

“There’s nothing to relearn. You’ve never taken to the kitchen, I’m afraid.” 

 

Mrs. Busby’s mirth distracts her to the point of injury- she holds up a suddenly red finger, quickly getting her blood away from the food. 

 

As if possessed, Delia springs into action, rinsing her mother’s hand under the spigot and fashioning a dressing. She works in silence, and after the wound is wrapped she and her mother stare in astonishment. 

 

“I don’t know how I knew that…” Delia’s voice trails off in wonderment. 

 

“You were a nurse, Delia. I’m sure you’ve bandaged a cut more times than you could count. The doctors said your procedural memory would likely remain even if the episodic memory was more difficult to recover.” 

 

“I’m a nurse.” 

 

Delia smiles at discovering a piece of herself, as her mother frowns at her use of the present tense. 

_ 

 

Mrs. Busby is exceptionally protective of Delia. Visitors are supervised and encouraged to keep their well-wishes brief. Delia doesn’t remember anyone. Mrs. Busby thinks she probably made a good effort to forget most of their neighbors before the accident anyhow. 

 

She doesn’t miss the guilty looks from the church ladies who whispered about her daughter when she was healthy and willful, who now express their  _ sincere  _ condolences for this difficult time. 

 

“Oh, Enid, remember, when god closes a door he opens a window.”

 

(She can think of a few people she’d like to throw out of one.) 

 

God help her soul, though, she’s glad to have her little girl back home. She knows that staying in Pembroke would have crushed Delia’s will, but if there is a silver lining to this heartache, it’s that she feels like she  _ knows  _ her daughter again, even if she doesn’t yet know herself. This Delia is seemingly incapable of guile or deceit, and she’s reminded of holding her young daughter on her knee, darning socks as her husband read a good night story. Delia always did love hearing about distant lands and brave heroes who defied convention. 

 

She’s writing a letter to her sister today, updating her on Delia’s progress and discussing their plans to come to London for Christmas this year. Delia follows along on the page, running her fingers over her mother’s pristine handwriting as she mouths the words. 

 

“Would you like to practice your writing, cariad?” 

 

She offers her a pen and pad of paper for her own, and Delia begins focusedly scrawling her name in loopy script. She even copies lines from her mother’s letter, focused on form without comprehension. 

 

Enid tries to ignore the scribbled  _ P _ ’s that litter the margins of the paper where Delia has become distracted. 

_

 

Parts of Delia’s personality begin to emerge, some more strongly than others. Steffan has thrown himself into work more so than ever before, feeling useless around his convalescent daughter. But as she regains her energy, he spends more time speaking with the girl (young woman, Enid reminds herself), and their conspiratorial rapport returns. Enid feels a mix of joy and hurt at the familiar exclusion from their jokes. 

 

“I’m bored,” Delia announces bluntly at breakfast one morning as they all munch on toast. 

 

(Well, she and Steffan munch. Enid nibbles. Someone in this family will be remotely civilized.)

 

“Being bored is an insult to yourself, Delia.” 

 

“Well, add insult to injury then!” 

Steffan laughs softly before meeting Enid’s exasperated sigh with understanding. 

 

“Why don’t you come to the shop with me today, Deels.”

 

Delia’s face lights up, and Enid can’t bring herself to rain on this parade. 

 

As Delia changes for her big adventure, she pulls her husband aside. 

 

“You’ll both be home for lunch, and then she rests. Make sure she has some place to sit- I know you spend all day on your feet but she’s out of practice-” 

 

Steffan silences her with a soft kiss and a gentle smile. 

 

“I’ll even carry her on my back if it keeps her from getting tired.” 

 

“That’s more like it.” 

_

 

Her father’s shop is a welcome respite from the monotony of the Busby home (her mother believes anything richer than a pastel is dreadfully gauche). Delia takes in all the colors and textures of her father’s fabrics, but she lingers on a rich olive felt, her fingers rubbing the matted wool like a rosary. Her father calls over his shoulder as he begins opening the shop for business. 

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear that color, cariad. Shall we add it to your wardrobe?” 

 

She shakes her head. 

 

“No, dad, I don’t want to wear it… it’s just nice to look at.” 

 

She manages to tear herself away from the talisman after a moment more of reverence. 

 

Business is slow today (she suspects her father probably planned it that way), and Delia and her father have a good deal of room to talk between customers. 

 

“You hated this place when you were little, you know?” 

 

Her father’s words are harsh, but his tone is gentle in its teasing. 

 

“It’s nice. Why didn’t I like it?” 

 

“You always wanted to be outside, running around with the boys, skinning your knees and climbing trees.” 

 

“I didn’t much care for having new dresses, did I?” 

 

He smiles encouragingly at her recollection. 

 

“You weren’t too terribly much like the other girls in town.” 

 

“I’m not too much like them now, either, am I? No husband, no baby, no job. I reckon I’ve disappointed you?” 

 

Delia’s voice is small and scared, afraid of how she’s ended up like this, the life she must have built to end up back home again. 

 

Her father is adamant in his refusal. 

 

“You could never disappoint me Delia. I don’t know if I’ve ever told you, but my dad nearly had my hide when I told him I was going to apprentice with Mr. Jones instead of joining him and my brothers in the mine.” 

 

Delia takes in her father’s thin angular features, the elegance of his tailored shirts and well-shined shoes. 

 

“You don’t look much like a miner.” 

 

Her father laughs, rich, and warm, and lively. 

 

“I certainly don’t. And I’ve heard many an ill word about that. But I have a business I love, a beautiful home, and a family I wouldn’t trade for the world. There aren’t too many words that could take that away from me.” 

 

“I think I was a pretty good nurse, dad.” 

 

He grins. 

 

“I  _ know  _ you were.” 

_ 

 

Annoying as it is to admit, her mother was right. Spending the morning with her father is exhausting, and Delia falls into a deep slumber after lunch, not waking again until well after dark. 

 

She tiptoes to refill her glass of water, but pauses at the top of the stairs when she hears a strain of music coming from the living room. 

 

Her father hums lightly as he extends a hand to her mother, who falters briefly before acquiescing to her husband’s charms. As they waltz, Delia sees her mother’s furrowed brow lighten, her sagging shoulders lift as the weight of her worries drifts away. Her parents look into one another’s eyes like they’re the only two people in the universe, and Delia feels a pang of recognition at the sight of a couple so deeply in love. 

 

It takes Delia a good long while to return to sleep, but when she does, she dreams. 

 

She dreams of copper orange, and olive green, and porcelain white.

 

She dreams of posh accents, and hushed whispers, and silent promises.

 

She dreams of dancing. 

  
In the morning, she writes a letter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm planning on doing this chunk as a three-parter- one more for Christmas-Easter, and another for Easter-Delia returning to Nonnatus. 
> 
> Sound good? 
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated!


	7. All at Once You Love Her

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Christmas. 
> 
> Mrs. Busby reflects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had some extra time to continue the thread from yesterday! 
> 
> Thank you for your interest in more Mrs. Busby.

Something is different about Delia.

 

On the journey back to Wales, Mrs. Busby had commented on the filth of the streets, the rudeness of Londoners, even the garish fashion of the young women, only to be met with a quiet “hmmmm” and a wistful smile.

 

When she had asked, “Are you sure you’re alright, cariad? Is your head hurting?” Delia had dismissed her brusquely, saying “I’m  _ fine _ , mam. I was just thinking about how lovely Christmas is.” 

 

Delia  _ despises  _ Christmas. 

 

She’s outgrown the kicking and screaming fits of her childhood when her grandparents came to visit,  but she’s been making excuses to beg out of carol services since the day she could talk. 

 

She’s left no doubt whatsoever on her opinions of mistletoe. 

 

(Roger Stewart never really did recover from that knee to the groin in grammar school.) 

 

But Enid cannot deny the seemingly angelic joy plastered on her only daughter’s face in recollection of their days spent in the city. 

 

She would like to believe that Delia has, in fact, seen the beauty of the Christmas miracle, and the strength of God’s love for his children, but as Delia’s memory returns, so does her secrecy. 

 

(You can’t keep a secret you don’t know, after all.) 

 

No, Enid, surmises that Delia has managed to finagle herself into a different kind of love altogether. 

_

 

Steffan listens attentively as they recount their journey (it wouldn’t do to leave the shop so close to the Holidays- last minute garment-shopping has paid many a bill over the years). He shares a look with Enid as Delia muses “It was so nice to be back home- I mean, back where I was living before.” They all ignore the tension that floods the dinner table, and Delia rushes off to bed as soon as her plate is clear. 

 

In the morning, she announces at breakfast, “I thought I’d make a trip to the post office today. Have you got anything you need posted?” 

 

Her tone is chipper, but her eyes are dark and cold as they meet Enid’s. 

 

_ She knows.  _

 

Enid doesn’t mean to be cruel, but after all that’s happened, returning to London is the last thing that Delia needs. She had hoped that with time, Delia would forget about this “friend” of hers and focus on the family she has here. Apparently, however, she’s only made Delia more determined than ever to keep in touch.

 

Trying to bend Delia’s will has a habit of backfiring. 

 

Encouraging her to help with mending while her cousins played had led to her camping out at the highest branch of the tallest tree until dusk was arrived and dinner was over. 

 

Begging her to at least train at a welsh hospital had led to all-night study marathons in preparation for admittance to the London’s Training School. 

 

And rerouting her efforts at communicating with Patsy has only fanned that ill-advised flame. 

 

Heaven help them all. 

_

 

Once Delia has a date for her final checkup with the specialist, she starts planning. Old textbooks are dusted off, notes meticulously kept, her world becoming smaller and smaller in preparation for returning to the wide open possibilities of London. 

 

In between retracing the worn paths of sutures and sterilization, she writes to Patsy. 

 

Nothing incriminating, of course, goodness knows Trixie is liable to read any correspondence, and Sister Winifred has an awfully strong nosy streak. 

 

(She interrupts the postman every day before her mam can, to be safe, but Patsy’s letters are equally chaste.)

 

She remembers a hundred ways to say “I love you,” with two words instead of three. 

 

_ Keep warm.  _

 

_ Be Safe. _

 

_ Come Back. _

_ _ _

 

In the dreadful terror of the hospital corridor, Mrs. Busby and Patsy had bonded in their grief and anguish. She recalls hugging the redhead, sharing tears and worries, begrudgingly accepting Patsy’s offer to sit with Delia while she and her husband rested themselves. In the numbing shock of those first few days, she hadn’t been able to process the meaning behind this strange woman’s constant presence, the conspicuous absence of any other peers waiting to see her daughter. 

 

But there had been many quiet hours with which to ponder while Delia recuperated. A mother always knows, whether she wants to or not, it seemed. Without meeting Patsy, she could pretend that Delia was too overworked and charitable to go looking for gentlemen callers. But obviously, she’d found  _ someone _ devoted to her. 

 

Enid has never faltered with prayer- the Lord makes his way known, and her life has been relatively simple, if not easy. But when she kneels beside her sleeping daughter, she is torn between willing her Delia back just as she was, and hoping that perhaps this accident was a way out of sin for her. 

 

Until the image of Delia’s bruised face and weak voice returns, and she feels scalded by the guild of wishing for such a thing. 

_

 

There’s always something to be done around the house. 

 

Delia finds homemaking dreadfully dull, but it certainly isn’t like her mother sits around all day listening to stories. She prides herself on the order of their small home, and wishes Delia would attempt to at least feign interest in the domestic realm. 

 

“Really, Delia, if you applied half the energy you do to studying to sewing you could have an entirely new wardrobe.” 

 

“Sewing doesn’t save lives, mam.” 

 

“It saves money- I can’t believe how much they charge you for those uniforms, and such an unflattering shade, to boot.” 

 

Delia hums in assent, still focused on her texts, until her mother continues her train of thought. 

 

“I just don’t want you putting all your stock in something that may not happen.” 

 

Delia’s brow furrows, as if she’s contemplating an angry outburst, before she softens to match Mrs. Busby’s measured tone. 

 

“It certainly won’t happen if I don’t try.” 

 

_

Enid spends more and more time observing her daughter as the gulf between them widens. She thinks, that perhaps it was a blessing in disguise that Delia was so motivated to leave Pembroke that her life was devoted to study. She doesn’t know if Patsy is the first woman Delia has loved (in the privacy of her own thoughts, she can admit that much), but she does know that if her daughter is clever enough to get by in the hustle and bustle of London, had she been fool enough to have cupid’s arrow hit closer to home, she would surely have been discovered by the gossip-hungry mavens of the community.

 

There isn’t anything she could say to Delia that hasn’t been thought before, no warning that could illuminate her choices or change her mind. 

 

So she keeps quiet, and tries to love her daughter as best she knows how. Their time together is limited, after all, though not in the way she once feared. 

 

The mending is long-forgotten and tossed aside. She stretches out of the old rocker, and pats a hand on Delia’s shoulder. 

 

“What do you way we call it a night? I’ll put on some cocoa and you can have the last of the shortbread, cariad. I think you’ve earned a reward.” 

_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've become terribly sympathetic towards Mrs. Busby after rewatching 4x08 and 5x00- I hope I've not been overly kind in my characterisation of her, but feel free to share your thoughts in the comments! 
> 
> may you all have a lovely week <3


	8. Younger than Springtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the Busby's, part 3: Easter and Everything After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I say that this is my last Mrs. Busby-centric piece, but apparently i'm in love with her now, so *shrugs.*

There was a time when Delia couldn’t go five minutes without speaking to her mother. Every trip as a child would be spent pointing out the window as she sat on her dad’s lap, marveling at the wonders of the wide world beyond Pembrokeshire. 

 

There was a time when Delia felt no need to keep secrets from her.

  
  


Today, silence strains the air between them as Enid struggles to talk about something, anything, besides the ever growing hole in her heart. 

 

“The cake at Nonnatus house was lovely, don’t you think Delia?” 

 

“Mrs. B has a way with bakes,” Delia mumbles, looking back towards the long-vanished ruddy streets of Poplar with moony eyes. 

 

“And those nuns certainly seem a better sort than the matrons at the nurses’ home.”

 

“The sisters have always been very welcoming to me.” 

 

(Delia doesn’t need to add “and Patsy.” The implications of her silence are painfully clear.) 

 

“Yes. Well.” 

 

Enid trails off again, and Delia makes no effort to keep the small talk going. Now that her memory has returned, more and more hours of the day are spent inside her own head, it seems. 

 

Enid wonders how things might have been different if Delia had had a brother or sister, if, perhaps, she hadn’t been so invested in the child she and Steffan had so desperately wanted. Was it too much mothering that led her Delia to be this way? Were there signs she could have seen? 

 

She remembers Delia’s first lie. 

 

Enid had found the note from Ms. Herrick smushed in the bottom of Delia’s satchel, slipped from where it had been pressed between the pages of her primer. When the offending evidence had been brought before the girl, she blushed and looked averted her eyes in shame.

 

Her daughter had always had a bit of a mischievous streak, but she had never been dishonest about her troublemaking before (In fact, she was usually distressingly proud of her misbehaviour). But whereas Mrs. Potts had been a matronly woman of 60, and Mr. Llewellyn had been a stern but kind young gentleman, this Ms. Herrick was, in a word, lovely. 

 

Enid wasn’t much in the habit of obsessing over anyone’s looks, male or female, but it was easy to see why her daughter was apparently infatuated with the woman. Her honey blonde hair shone in the autumn sunlight, giving her an almost angelic look. And despite the dissappointment in her warm brown eyes, Delia’s teacher was obviously quite fond of the little hellion. 

 

“So you see, Mrs. Busby, your Delia is exceptionally bright, but she really mustn’t interrupt the other students in class- we want everyone to have an opportunity to answer questions, even if Delia does know the right answer.” 

 

Enid pursed her lips and looked down at her fidgeting daughter. 

 

“I’m sure we can work on our patience, can’t we cariad?”

 

Delia nodded meekly, before meeting her teacher’s gaze and breaking into a grin when she received a radiant smile of approval. 

 

After the debacle, Enid had predicted that Delia would become a teacher someday - surely her admiration was hero worship, nothing more. 

 

_ Fool me once…  _

_

 

Steffan is all smiles when he hears the news of Delia’s new lease on life. 

 

“I daresay, if a house of nuns can’t keep you in line, there’s no hope for you at all, love!” 

 

Delia smirks. 

 

“I don’t know, dad, the bible at least teaches forgiveness. Matron wasn’t one to let bygones be bygones.” 

 

“Well, I think that the Nonnatus House is at least better looking than that unsightly old dormitory. It was hardly worthy of being called a home!” 

 

(She’s trying to put on a brave face. Trying not to protest that no building will ever have the love and safety of these four walls. Trying not to warn her daughter over the dinner table that her mam cannot protect her from her indiscretions when she is so far away from home.) 

_

Enid tosses and turns that evening. Steffan is kind and patient, but his day has been long and his morning is early. 

 

“You know you’ll never sleep if you don’t talk about it.” 

She sighs, wondering just when she stopped deceiving herself and started lying to her husband. 

 

“It just all seems so fast. One moment we thought we would lose Delia forever, and now she’s leaving home again without a second glance back.” 

 

“And it’s the best outcome we could have hoped for, Enid. Aren’t you thankful for her health?” 

 

She purses her lips, weighing her words. 

 

“Of course I’m glad she’s well. I just hoped she might…  _ reconsider  _ her choices in light of the past months’ events.” 

 

Steffan laughs, gentle yet incredulous. 

 

“I remember a time when you didn’t want to settle down either, love.  Delia has plenty of time yet to settle down and give us grandchildren. Twenty-four is not nearly so old as it was when we were here age.” 

 

Barring a medical miracle or a freak accident, Delia is most certainly not going to give them any grandchildren. 

 

But Enid can only bear to crush her own hopes tonight. 

 

“Do you suppose she gets her impatience from me, then?” 

 

He smiles into her neck, and she lets the comfort of familiarity lull her into a fitful slumber. 

_ 

 

For her part, Delia is trying to make the most of her last weeks at home. It wouldn’t be fair for Enid to discount the sudden interest in household matters; the constant presence at her side when her nursing textbooks are given a rest. 

 

They’ve both always had a remarkable knack for putting on a happy face when the time called for it. 

 

“Thank you, mam.” 

 

Delia squeezes her hand through the suds of the dishwater as the clear the breakfast plates and begin another day. Her fingers prune more quickly now, her skin thinner and wrinkled against her daughter’s strong grasp. 

 

(Sometimes in her dreams she still sees the dirt under those close-trimmed nails, still feels the weak hold of a frightened child in a grown woman’s body.) 

“For washing dishes? You’re right cariad, I really should make you do all the chores yourself to earn your three squares and a cot, shouldn’t I?” 

 

They communicate in pauses now, the words meaningless filler between deeper truths. 

 

Delia smiles at her mother’s unsure attempts at teasing. 

 

“I’m going to miss you and dad terribly.” 

 

( _ But I miss her more. I can live without you, but not without her.)  _

 

“Well, I certainly expect you to write. And I won’t have you letting your dad close the shop on holiday without a visit.” 

 

( _ Keep your secrets in London. They aren’t safe here. )  _

 

Delia dries the last of the saucers and looks through the window where the pale spring sun is shining on the meadow. 

 

“It’s not really Easter without daffodils, you know?” 

 

_ (This will always be my home. Even if my heart is elsewhere.)  _

 

“You always did love yellow, cariad.” 

 

_ (You will always be my daughter. Even if you aren’t what I thought you would be.)  _

_

 

Delia is adamant that she travels to London by herself this last time, but she does concede to allow some assistance in packing. 

 

Enid blushes when she inadvertently picks up a polaroid of her daughter and Patsy. The stern redhead she’s met looks like another person entirely when she’s looking at her daughter, her fierce features lightened by joy. 

 

If Nurse Mount were a male doctor, she supposes she would be quite the catch. 

 

Handsome, posh, educated. Few mothers could hope for better matches for their daughters. 

 

But she is in for a long future of brushing aside well-meaning neighbors and family members who ask about grandchildren and marriage and when-on-earth-will-Delia-finally-get-some-sense-in-her-head-and-settle-down? 

 

Delia has always been exceptionally conscientous with others- Enid knows beyond a doubt that nursing is her calling, and she has always been proud of her daughter’s vocation. 

 

But a lifetime of skinned knees and blurted words and rash decisions has proven her daughter lacks that sensibility when it comes to herself.

 

Until now, she hadn’t thought of how the cookie might crumble when Delia inevitably fell in love. 

 

She discreetly turns the photograph over, sliding it back into its place in the stack and handing the parcel to Delia. 

 

Standing, brushing invisible dust off of her apron, she offers a benediction to Delia before leaving her to make her peace with this place. 

 

“Don’t forget to be careful, Delia.” 

 

Delia nods cautiously, swallowing before bridging the gap and taking her mother into a strong hug. 

 

“I love you, too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for reading these snippets- this truly is the most lovely fandom of all fandoms! 
> 
> next chapter is gonna be hell of s m u t, so your patience for my family feels will be rewarded duly :D 
> 
> ideas and fangirling are always welcomed on tumblr @blueblue-baby


	9. Love, Look Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Set during Season 5, after Delia has moved into the nunnery.) 
> 
> Delia wants Patsy.   
> Patsy is not about to defile her uniform.  
> Good thing Delia's always been clever. 
> 
> (smut, i guess)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promised some good ol' fashioned lady loving as an antidote to all the Patsy-less chapters I've been doing lately, so enjoy a lil' debauchery.

Patsy prefers the new Nonnatus uniform to the old one almost all of the time. It’s certainly more flattering, and donning the brighter blue as her faded cotton dress was discarded felt like a proper rite of passage, a true initiation into this new family of nuns and nurses, after a somewhat rocky start. 

 

But tonight, the crisp starched collar feels like it might very well choke her. 

 

(That is, if the whole ensemble doesn’t spontaneously combust first.) 

 

It’s all Delia’s fault. 

 

(Most of the mishaps of the past five years are. She wouldn’t trade them for the world.) 

 

The last thing Patsy wants after an arduous day of cranky clinic patients was a night on-call, but Trixie has AA tonight, and Barbara’s doing  _ something _ with Tom (she had zoned out after the mention of the curate’s name, saving her mental energy for more pressing matters, like what color nail polish she and Trix should use for their next manicures), and Phyllis has gone to bed early to acquire a few hours of rest before she assumes Patsy’s role. 

 

(Nurse Crane’s snores echo softly as Pasty pads gingerly down the hall to Delia’s room.) 

 

Her intentions are perfectly noble. 

 

Delia is working nights again, and has been sleeping since early afternoon. Patsy means only to wake her before her next shift, and perhaps catch up on a little light-hearted conversation before duty calls them apart once more. 

_

She takes a moment to appreciate the softness of Delia’s sleeping visage before whispering the brunette’s name. 

 

“Pats?” 

 

Delia stretches languidly, opening her eyes to gaze warmly at Patsy. 

 

“I’m sorry for waking you, Deels. I just wanted to lay eyes on you before a call comes in.” 

 

Delia grins. 

 

“So you won’t be laying hands on me?” 

 

Patsy worries her lip between her bottom teeth. 

 

“I’m afraid my uniform would not permit it.” 

 

Delia pauses, forlorn, as she extricates herself from her cocoon of quilts, bare legs crossed nonchalantly atop her bedspread. 

 

“That’s a shame… I was having the most  _ wonderful  _ dream.” 

 

Delia’s voice is the picture of innocence, but her blue eyes shine dark with desire. 

 

Patsy squirms a bit where she is stood before Delia relents, patting the chair next to her bed. 

 

“Take a load off and tell me about your day. It looks like it’s been a long one, if the slump of your shoulders is any indication.” 

 

Patsy begins to ramble about the chaos of the morning, and Monica Joan’s valiant-yet-misguided efforts to entertain the clinic’s younger patients with Greek and Roman myths in pantomime. Delia is exceptionally attentive at first, but as she notes the silence of Nonnatus around them, she interrupts. 

 

“Patsy, are we alone?”

 

“The sisters are at compline and Trixie and Barbara are out at the moment. Save for Nurse Crane, yes, I suppose we are. But Delia, that does not at all change the fact that I’m in uniform and due to leave at a moment’s notice.” 

 

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Delia’s right hand skim the top of her thigh, lingering on the hem of her nightgown. 

 

“Well then, why don’t you just keep telling me about your day, and I can… listen.” 

 

(She  _ purrs _ . Honestly, the nerve.) 

 

“Are you quite sure that’s what you want, Deels?” 

 

“You know I love the sound of your voice, Patsy.” 

 

Their eyes lock, Delia challenging her to either back down or escalate this, but for the love of god, don’t keep her waiting. 

 

Patsy pushes back her chair to get a better view of Delia, and clears her throat. 

 

“You know, I’m still rather shocked by how often I have to repeat the same lesson over and over to our patients.” 

 

Delia hums as she shifts to find better access on the bed, spreading her legs wider and tracing lazy circles across her inner thighs and hip bones. 

 

“Repetition isn’t always a bad thing, Pats.” 

 

“Yes, well, it’s just a little frustrating, isn’t it?” 

 

Delia giggles before moving her right hand to feel waiting wetness. 

 

(It had been a  _ very _ nice dream, after all.) 

 

She gasps through the first moments of relief, heightened by Patsy’s intent gaze on her heated skin. 

 

“Who did you work with today?” 

 

“Barbara. Who has certainly come a long way since she first stumbled in here. She must have embodied Sister Evangelina’s spirit with those ruffian boys this morning- you’ve never seen her so stern!”

 

Delia’s right hand continues to circle her clit, as her left hand reaches up to attend to her breasts. 

 

The loose drape of her nightgown gives Patsy a clear view of everything.

 

The strain of her nipples against the thin worn fabric.

 

The elegant slope of her neck as her head leans back in choked passion. 

 

The full picture of  _ her,  _ wet, and swollen and  _ so very ready  _ for Patsy to see. 

 

(Patsy has never been more grateful for Delia’s loose and shapeless sleepwear than this very moment. She’s also never wished more that her face could be Delia’s hand.) 

 

There’s certainly no novelty in seeing a woman’s body, but the pang of possessiveness she feels at having Delia on display electrifies Patsy, and she feels her toes curl in her sensible leather shoes. 

 

“Delia, love, are you sure you don’t need any help finishing up before your shift?” 

 

Delia slows her now frantic movements to fix Patsy with an impatient glare. 

 

“Patience Mount if you are teasing me I might have to kill you.” 

 

“I would never, Deels. It’s just, well, sometimes an extra hand makes a world of difference.” 

 

She stands, and Delia’s breath hitches as she nods. 

 

Patsy takes Delia’s hand in her own, nudging Delia’s fingers lower as she assumes their prior position. 

 

Delia muffles the ensuing moan in her shoulder, grasping the sheets roughly. 

 

“I know you would have been just fine on your own, but you know I’m no good at sitting around and watching when I know I could be more efficient. And effective for that matter.” 

 

She feels Delia tense beneath her, eyes closed tightly as she breathes out her release as gently as possible, given the circumstances. 

 

“Better?” 

 

Delia opens her eyes slowly, adjusting to the familiarity of her room. 

 

“Lots.” 

 

Patsy can’t help the loving smile that blooms across her face at Delia’s blushing expression. 

 

She also can’t help but feel the pounding of her own blood beneath her skin. 

 

She places a gentle kiss to Delia’s forehead, before drawing her fingers into her mouth and elegantly licking them clean, holding eye contact the entire time. 

 

Delia slumps back, defeated by desire. 

 

“I deserved that.” 

 

“You certainly did.”

 

The moment is broken by the ring of the telephone, and Patsy scampers to answer it, before pausing at the threshold to wink at a still recovering Delia. 

  
“Give my love to male surgical.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *blushes forever* 
> 
> seriously, thanks to all y'all for reading- writing for this fandom is one of the most exciting and validating ventures I've ever undertaken and I live a very rich life :D


	10. You've Got to Be Carefully Taught

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: Racism
> 
> Delia delivers a baby to a couple who have overcome odds of their own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for @Think_Busby_Think - thank you for the title, and the research assistance!
> 
> I am an American from the South, so I am more than familiar with my own shameful history of racism. That said, I have done as much research as I can on expatriates in the UK after WWII, but, I'm an amateur and this is for free. Criticism and feedback is always appreciated!

Midwifery is the hardest thing Delia has ever done, and she’s made a pattern of taking on challenges at every opportunity. The endurance required for a difficult labor is like nothing she ever encountered in male surgical; the fatigue of an endless day greater than any point iin her accident recovery. 

 

But between elbow grease and heartache lives the pure magic of two lives emerging from one. 

 

Delia doesn’t know that she’s ever met a couple so obviously smitten as the Johnsons. The first time she steps into their flat she feels love surround her like a blanket, comforting and warm. 

 

Mr. Johnson is the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome, his lanky arm wrapped loosely around his much shorter wife’s shoulders as they greet her at the threshold. 

 

“See love, you’re not the only one who hasn’t assimilated into an accent,” Mrs. Johnson teases her husband upon hearing Delia’s pronounced lilt. 

 

“How long have you lived in London, Nurse Busby?” 

 

“Six years, and I still stick out like a sore thumb as soon as I open my mouth.” 

 

The couple laughs easily at Delia’s self-deprecation, a skill she had quickly found handy in easing the nerves of mothers-to-be. 

 

“Well I’ve been here for almost twenty now, but I don’t think it’s the American accent that causes the stares,” Mr. Johnson quips in his rich baritone, a current of anger underneath the learned jest of beating someone else to the punch. 

 

Delia’s throat constricts in muscle memory of the feeling of judgmental eyes and whispered voices. She can’t imagine what the Johnsons have had to face, but she knows too well how cruels strangers can be when they have the shelter of anonymity. 

 

She grasps his hand in her much smaller fingers. 

 

“Rest assured, you’ll find no such judgment here.” 

 

Delia meets Mrs. Johnson’s worried gaze and gives her a small nod of reassurance. 

 

“Shall we see how baby is doing?” 

_ 

 

Delia looks forward to visits with the Johnsons. Poplar’s mothers are a varied group, and while she does her very best to provide the same quality of care to all her patients, she can’t really help but play favorites. There’s an ease with which conversation flows with Mrs. Johnson (“Gertrude, I insist, Nurse Busby,”) that reminds her of Patsy. Delia has never had difficulty making small talk, but sometimes two people just get one another. 

(“Kindred spirits,” her mother had called it, though the tone of her voice when referring to ‘that Nurse Mount’ was more disapproving than elated.) 

 

Mr. Johnson is working for her next few visits, and Gertrude regales her with the tale of their courtship as she records vitals and measurements in her notes. 

 

“So many of the GIs were so arrogant, you know? But Benny wasn’t like that, at all. He was sweet, and kind,” 

 

“-And handsome?” Delia winks. 

 

“Yes, and  _ devastatingly  _ handsome. From the moment we met, it just felt inevitable, even if the thought of dating a black man had never even occurred to me.” 

 

“Some things are just meant to be, aren’t they?” 

 

“It hasn’t been easy, I’ll tell you that. Lord, my mother nearly fainted when she met Benny. But she’s come around after all these years. It doesn’t hurt that we’re finally giving her a grandchild. I think she’s more shocked that I’m pregnant at thirty-six than anything else, honestly.” 

 

Delia smirks at the thought of announcing a pregnancy to her own mother, far-fetched as the idea is. 

 

“Well, everything is running along smoothly, Mrs. Johnson. Baby is healthy and happy and should be coming to meet us any day now. “ 

_

 

Barbara assists on the delivery, and Delia is grateful for her cheery optimism as the newness of bringing infants into the world threatens to make her a quivering pile of nerves instead of a capable midwife. 

 

(She gives the briefest of double-takes upon meeting the soon-to-be parents, but is quick to refocus her energy on the task at hand, leaving any notion of shock at the door.) 

 

Gertrude gives birth to a lively baby girl, whose cries echo against the walls of the cozy flat. 

 

They name her Ella, because “she’s got one helluva set of pipes already,” and Delia finds herself crying along with Mr. and Mrs. Johnson. 

 

As they wheel their bikes back onto the cobblestone, Barbara comments, “You could have given me some warning, perhaps?” 

Delia supposes she could have, but wouldn’t that have just made something that should never be an issue into one? She pauses for a moment of reflection.

 

“It wasn’t especially medically relevant. Didn’t seem important in the grand scheme of things.” 

 

Barbara blushes in fear that she’s come across as insensitive. 

 

“I suppose you’re right. It was an excellent delivery, by the way. You really are a natural. I’m a little bit jealous given how clumsy my start was!”

_

 

Barbara repeats her praise over the dinner table, and the other nurses are quick to join in their congratulations and toasts. 

 

Sister Winifred can’t help but comment on the child herself. 

 

“I just wish that the Johnsons had given more thought to how hard things will be for their daughter. Children can be so terribly cruel to one another.” 

  
  


Delia balks. 

 

“Sister, with all due respect, they’ve been married for fifteen years. I dare say they’ve given the prospect a bit more thought than you.” 

 

(She feels Patsy’s hand squeezing her knee under the table in an effort to prevent an all-out meltdown.) 

 

Sister Julienne quickly steps in to mediate before Sister Winifred ends up stalking off in a blaze of tears and self-righteousness. 

 

“A happy, healthy child was born today- I believe that is our only concern, and a cause for great joy and celebration. Thanks be to God for the safe arrival of another child into this world.” 

 

Sister Winifred murmurs a meek “Thanks be to God,” and the women finish their meal in rushed silence. 

_

 

Lounged across her bed, Patsy inhales deeply on her cigarette before proclaiming, “I think Sister Winifred is wrong.” 

 

Trixie scoffs. 

 

“And the grass is green and the sky is blue. What else is new?” 

 

“I mean,” Patsy continues, measuredly, “Children really aren’t that cruel, it’s the parents that make them that way.” 

 

Delia’s eyes widen. 

 

“Patsy, are you about to tell us… a personal story?” 

 

The redhead rolls her eyes at Delia’s joke, even as she rubs a hand across her back as means of encouragement to open up. 

 

“When I was about four years old, I made a friend in Singapore. I don’t think I ever learned her name- in fact, I don’t think we ever spoke. But we played just the same, and we managed to make a routine of meeting up every day after breakfast to make mud pies, or shoot marbles, or whatever it is that children do to pass the time. Until one day, my mum came out early from her sewing and pulled me away from that girl. She explained that I  _ mustn’t  _ ever play with her again. It wasn’t proper, you see. And I felt so  _ shamed,  _ even if I didn’t understand why, that I listened to her.” 

 

Tears prick at Patsy’s eyes as she relives the long-buried memory. 

 

“I’ve never felt more like a coward.” 

 

Delia grips her hand tightly now, anchoring her.

 

“Oh Patsy, I’m sorry, that’s dreadful,” Trixie commiserates. 

 

“I saw her through the window, the whole next week, waiting to play, until she realized I wasn’t coming back. And I’m more than certain it was far from the worst experience she had with Britons.”  

 

Delia nods, solemnly. 

 

“We have a nasty habit of stealing land and scorning its people, don’t we?”

 

Trixie swallows her lemonade before straightening her shoulders and forcing a cheery smile. 

 

“Well, I know more than anyone that love is something to hold on to when you can find it- here’s to Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, and love against the odds!” 

 

Patsy and Delia lock eyes over their scotch, taking a hearty swig in unison. 

  
Through the burn of the whisky, their fingers remain entwined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading. Prompts/requests are more than welcome.


	11. Cause We Got Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From tumblr: "Pupcake prompt, making dinner together/for each other when the other girls are in Soth Africa  
> "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've expanded chapter titles to include Rodgers and Hart's oeuvre as well ;D 
> 
> FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF AHEAD

12 months ago, Patsy could have never imagined that Christmas this year would see her with Delia, much less practically alone in Nonnatus house. (She wouldn’t have expected their soul company to be sisters Mary Cynthia and Monica Joan, but life is full of surprises, isn’t it?) 

 

In some ways, Nonnatus is achingly empty, as if Evangelina had died ten times over (though the imminence of everyone’s return lessens the blow). In others, it feels like breaking curfew in school, the thrill of a few hours of freedom before being found out. She and Delia can’t be as carefree as they would have been in their flat, but without Trixie and Barbara around, it’s easy to steal away for “girls’ time,” as it were. 

 

(And why should anyone question Delia moving into Patsy’s room for the month? Hers is awfully drafty, and Fred is more than happy to save on maintenance tasks for the time being.) 

 

The extra work left from the others’ absence doesn’t leave much room for honeymooning, but if Patsy has learned anything in this lifetime, it’s the importance of gratitude. To come home to Delia is a gift, even when she cannot greet her with a kiss, or say “Darling, I love you so very much,” or drag her right off to the bedroom after a long and frustrating day. 

 

Sometimes, a smile can convey all of the above, and that is more than enough. 

 

Patsy doesn’t much care for Christmas- the holidays are a stark reminder of loss, and as wonderful as her found family is, she still remembers her sister’s inability to sleep on Christmas Eve; her Mother’s clear soprano singing out carols as she gracefully accompanied on the piano. Ghosts of Christmas past are not limited to Ebenezer Scrooge. 

 

So, aside from Monica Joan’s preoccupation with tinsel, and Mary Cynthia’s prolonged absences for prayer, she doesn’t take much note of Jesus’s quickly approaching due date. 

 

Mrs. Busby had been decidedly unhappy when Delia had written to inform her she would be remaining in London this year, what with the short staffing at Nonnatus and the need for holiday shifts at the hospital. But  _ blessedly,  _ she’s managed to rearrange with her sister so that she will be in London for boxing day. 

 

(Patsy is praying for a few premature labors at the moment.) 

 

Sunday is still a day of rest, Nuns or no, and Patsy awakes from a late night delivery to find her bed empty and delightful scents coming from downstairs. 

 

Mrs. B is off today, and were Sister Monica Joan in the kitchen, there would be smoke wafting toward her, not mouthwatering odors of bakes and stews and all manner of things delicious. 

 

This calls for investigation. 

 

She pads lightly down the stairs in her pajamas to find Delia stood over the stove, whistling happily as she stirs a pot of stew with one hand and peers into the oven. Patsy’s not quite sure where she acquired her frilly apron, but she looks absolutely  _ adorable.  _

 

Delia is, of course, oblivious to Patsy’s grinning surveillance, and she takes a few moments to stare unabashedly at the brunette before disturbing her focus. 

 

“I don’t suppose I could trouble you for a cup of tea in the middle of all this,” she grins, sheepishly. 

 

Delia doesn’t even turn around. 

 

“Nurse Mount, it’s ten o’clock already. I daresay you’ve missed your window for breakfast. But I suppose you could put on a kettle on that back burner, so long as you’re quick about it. I’ll need the counter space for veg soon.” 

 

Patsy saunters over to gather the requisite supplies, but judging by the way Delia doesn’t even  _ acknowledge  _ her presence, that admonishment was not flirtatious ribbing, but the gospel truth. 

 

Well. 

 

Once caffeinated, Patsy decides that if she can’t beat ‘em, she might as well join ‘em. 

 

“Delia, can I be of any assistance to you? I’m sure I can handle prep work or something.” 

 

Delia considers the offer carefully. 

 

“I’ve never seen you in the kitchen Pats, I’m not sure if that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

 

Now she is affronted.  _ Honestly.  _

 

“And I’ve never eaten your cooking, but you can be sure that regardless of what comes out of that oven I will relish every bite.” 

 

Delia crosses her arms, conceding the point. 

 

“Alright, you can peel potatoes.” 

 

She works in silence, trying to simply enjoy being near Delia, to cherish the domesticity of the moment, even if she’s not sure what to make of Delia’s kitchen manner. The monotony is only interrupted by Sister Monica Joan popping her head in to ask, “but there will still be cake, yes?” 

Delia reassures her exasperatedly and the nun retreats quickly from the room as if burned from lava.

 

Soon enough, however, all the potatoes are peeled, and Patsy’s cursory attempts at dicing are deemed entirely insufficient, and Delia shoos her from the kitchen, informing her that dinner will be served at two o’clock.  

 

She moves dejectedly into the living room, where Monica Joan is watching television and knitting what appears to be a Christmas stocking. She grasps Patsy’s hand and gives her a solemn, knowing nod. 

 

“I believe that some of us are meant to cook, and others, to eat. For what good is a feast if it goes unconsumed?” 

 

“Indeed.” 

_ 

 

Patsy does at least manage to make herself look presentable for dinner (“a feast for the eyes,” she would joke, if Trixie were here to appreciate it, because apparently Delia’s sense of humour has gone to South Africa, as well), and she slips back into the kitchen at quarter of two to set the table for four. Now that her multi-tasking is nearly complete, Delia can at least manage a warm “thank you, Pats,” as she tidies everything for the final presentation. 

 

Sister Mary Cynthia beams like a child on Christmas Morning when she eyes the spread laid out before them.

 

“This is  _ wonderful,  _ Delia! Thank you so much!” 

 

Delia blushes and brushes off the compliment, claiming that it “really wasn’t all that much work,” though the slump in her shoulders from the day’s labor belies her. 

 

Monica Joan scarcely makes the pretence of eating the main course, instead going straight for the Welsh Christmas Cake. 

 

“It is not as good as a pudding, but quite scrumptious, nonetheless,” she declares between crumbs. 

 

“It’s my grandmother’s recipe, Sister,” Delia explains,” I got rather good at cooking while I was home last year.” 

 

“Well, I for one, am glad to reap the benefits of your convalescence,” Patsy quips warmly, squeezing Delia’s hand under the table. 

 

Mary Cynthia grins conspiratorially. 

 

“Don’t tell Mrs. B, but I think your Christmas Dinner may be even better than hers, Delia.” 

_

 

Delia does see fit to enlist Patsy’s help in washing dishes (it’s a skill she’s more than proven), and they beg off Sister Mary Cynthia’s offers to help, since she’s on phone duty at the moment. 

 

(Sister Monica Joan disappears quickly when clean-up time arrives.) 

 

In the hustle and bustle of the morning, Patsy hadn’t thought about the date, but she can’t help but wonder aloud now. 

 

“Delia, why on earth did you feel the need to make Christmas Dinner on the twenty-first?” 

 

For what feels like the first time all day, Delia fully looks at her, without distractions. 

 

“Well, for practical matters, I’m working the holiday and Mrs. B will probably leave something more British for you then.” 

 

“And for not practical matters?” 

 

“I wanted to make a new tradition with you, Pats. And I know Christmas Day isn’t all that special or magical to you, so I thought, maybe, if we had a celebration on a different day, it could be ours.” 

 

Patsy brings a soapy hand to wrap around that godforsaken apron, leaning in to rest her forehead against Delia’s. 

 

“And here I thought Sister Monica Joan had just finagled you into hosting a pagan Winter Solstice feast.” 

 

Delia smiles as Patsy steals a chaste kiss above the dishwater. 

 

“You know, it is the longest, darkest night of the year, Pats. It sure would be a shame to spend it alone.” 

 

“You poor thing, I guess I could take pity on you and keep you company.” 

_

  
The solstice feast does in fact, manage to catch on, and over the years Patsy and Delia play host to a wide range of distinguished guests (including, on one occasion, an obviously confused Mrs. Busby and a goofily delighted Mr. Busby). The sizes of the kitchens vary, the dining tables are sometimes more modest than others, but throughout it all, the ridiculous apron remains. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, prompts are muchly appreciated! 
> 
> holla at ur girl on tumblr @blueblue-baby


	12. Out of My Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Tumblr: "Smut smut smut!" 
> 
> (Or, another take on Patsy and Delia's first time)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been done plenty of times, but I don't really write sex without feelings, so...

Patience Mount can deal well with many things. 

 

Frustration is not one of them. 

 

It’s not that her name is inaccurate- goodness knows she’d waited long enough to confess her feelings to Delia, and she’s certainly had to do more than her fair share of waiting on patients, but these past few weeks (months, if she’s being truly honest with herself) have been torture. 

 

(She thinks she may end up in the next generation of nursing textbooks, as a case study: “Woman, age 24, Spontaneously Combusts.” ) 

 

Patsy has kissed girls before. Her classmates would often “practice” with one another for their dates with boys, and Patsy had been roped into one or two such experiments. But she was quick to find excuses to beg off from the revelry once she realized her interest in practice far surmounted any opportunity or desire for heterosexual romance. 

 

Delia, though… 

 

Kissing Delia is tender, and sweet, and lovely. 

 

And  _ surprisingly  _ filthy. 

 

When they had first met, Patsy had thought Delia absolutely beautiful, with her dainty features and piercing eyes. And then, once they’d formed an easy friendship, she was undoubtedly adorable, all dimples and winks and secret smiles. She was quickly infatuated, instantly taken back to school girl crushes of yore. Infatuation snowballed into yearning, which then stretched out into pining, and in retrospect, the romantic courtship began long before any sort of physical consummation. 

 

But now that she knows kissing Delia Busby, Patsy cannot for the life of her quell her damned imagination. 

 

They haven’t had the opportunity to do more than kiss over the past 48 days ( _ who’s counting _ ), and even that barely. But Patsy has had  _ ample _ time to imagine more. 

 

Because Delia makes these little noises when she kisses her- not quite moans but certainly more than sighs, and they make Patsy’s toes curl involuntarily and her stomach drop through four floors down the the damp basement, and sometimes on quiet moments in the ward she hears Delia’s sounds of pleasure and her knees buckle ever-so-slightly. 

 

And the way her fingers grab Patsy’s wrist (honestly, her  _ wrist.  _ It’s mortifying the effect that Delia has on her), dragging her right over the edge of decency and reason into oblivion. On a few occasions she’s gone so far as to wrap her free hand in Patsy’s frock, bunching the fabric and holding on for dear life. It’s a wonder that she doesn’t pull away scalded, with the heat Patsy knows is emanating off of her body in waves. 

 

Patsy knows what it’s like to be lusted after; she takes pride in her appearance, and men tend to be painfully obvious about the whole affair anyway. 

 

But she has never felt the pull of desire from someone she wants  _ back.  _ It has absolutely ruined her focus. 

 

For the first time, she prays that she and Delia won’t share shifts, because Delia is merciless in her teasing. In a matter of seconds she can manage to give her the most lascivious look and then turn completely saccharine as she returns to her tasks, while Patsy blushes and fumbles and the others joke about how she must have a bit of a crush on handsome Mr. Dooley in bed 3. 

 

Delia seems much more unaffected in public, no matter what Patsy wears on their excursions or how low she lets her voice register. She only gives away her own distraction in quick glances at her lips, eyes darting ever so briefly to her decolletage. 

 

Patsy doesn’t even have as much to ogle, and  _ yet.  _

 

She thinks that Delia’s wardrobe leaves too much to the imagination.

 

Her frocks are always high collared, with extremely respectable hemlines, uniform or no. 

 

Patsy wants to unzip them with her teeth. 

 

Her accessories aren’t meant to catch the eye. She sports modest earrings if any, and her nails are bare and short in contrast to the fashion of manicures and bright lacquer. Her hands are strong and practical, fingers almost stubby in comparison the the elegance of a pianist. 

 

Patsy wants them inside of her.  

 

_

 

Something has to give, or Patsy will be a patient on the psych ward, not a clinician.

 

Last weekend Patsy had faked a cold to get out of a dance and Delia had insisted that she just must absolutely write her mother, or there would be no end of the complaints come holiday. Patsy hadn’t had to do much to mimic a fever, truth be told. 

 

Patsy wasn’t proud of the way she slammed Delia against the door once their neighbors were long out of earshot, but it had been a hellishly long week. 

 

“Mmmmmphhhh,” Delia gasped against her neck, “I missed you too, Pats.” 

 

“You. Are. Killing. Me,” Patsy hissed out between kisses to increasingly revealed bits of Delia’s skin. 

 

Delia pulled back, impish smile against her flush features. 

 

“Are you telling me that unflappable Nurse Mount has lost her composure?” 

 

Patsy put her hands upon her hips, frowning impudently. 

 

“Consider me flapped, Nurse Busby.” 

 

Delia grinned before pulling her close again for another kiss, teasing her lips with a playful tongue. Patsy almost let herself give in fully to the sensation, before she registered the sound of footsteps and laughter once more coming close to her door. 

 

“Well,  _ fuck me.” _

 

Delia’s scarlet blush was only the smallest of consolations. 

_

If such a thing were possible, this week was even longer. After three straight days of twelve-hour shifts together (heaven help them), Patsy and Delia end up having to cover overnight when their relief forget they’re on nights and become too intoxicated to report for duty. Patsy is fit to kill the nurses, using only her words if necessary, until Matron informs her and Delia in the morning that they’re to spend the day resting, without disturbances as reward for their tireless service over the past twenty-four hours. 

 

The dormitory is empty as they trudge back toward their hall. 

 

“I’ve never been more exhausted,” Delia groans. 

 

She hesitates at her door, finally turning to meet Patsy, as terrified as she is of what this unexpected gift of privacy means or them. 

 

“Likewise,” Patsy agrees, but her voice is a hoarse whisper, and her eyes can’t help but crackle with an intensity they really oughtn’t to be able to possess at the moment. 

 

“Pats?” 

 

She nods imperceptibly before cautiously following Delia into her room. 

 

“Honestly, I would be thrilled just to hold you right now.” 

 

Delia smiles softly, as she unties her shoes and indicates for Patsy to put hers next to them. 

 

As she moves to unfasten her uniform, Patsy steps behind her. 

 

“Here. Let me.” 

 

She brushes the hair away from the nape of Delia’s neck, and she can see the ghost of her touch as the shorter woman shivers. Her lips follow as she begins to lower the zipper on the back of the (hideous) lavender frock. 

 

“Is this alright, Delia?” 

 

In lieu of response, Delia shrugs out of her uniform, leaving it in a crumple on the floor and turning around to push Patsy toward the bed. 

 

As her legs collapse into the mattress, Delia straddles her lap and begins unbuttoning the front of her uniform. 

 

“Patience Mount, you have no idea how often I’ve thought of having you in my bed like this.” 

 

Her accent thickens as she continues to undress Patsy, and she has never loved Wales more in her life. 

 

“Mmm, Deels, I think I may have some idea, if my own thoughts are any indication.” 

 

Delia grins at her admission. 

 

“Well, we knew that I was a shameless pervert, Pats, but this is news to me. Care to share with the class?” 

 

Patsy rolls her eyes. 

 

“I prefer to show, not tell.” 

 

Delia nods as Patsy raises her arms, revealing a pale slip as Delia pulls her uniform over her head, tossing it carelessly to join her own. 

 

“Why not both?” 

 

Patsy runs her hands up Delia’s thighs in agreement. 

 

“Very well. I’ve thought of kissing your breasts.” 

 

She dips her head to Delia’s cleavage, marveling at heretofore unrevealed soft curves. 

 

“You give excellent examples, Pats. Do continue.” 

 

Patsy moves her hands closer to Delia’s center. 

 

“I’ve  _ dreamed  _ of feeling you move against me, nothing between us but skin.” 

 

Delia parts her legs further to rock against Patsy’s leg. She’s bare beneath her own slip, and Patsy gasps at the unexpected sensation. 

 

Delia’s abandon emboldens her. 

 

“Most of all, though, I’ve thought about you touching me.” 

 

“Say no more,” Delia husks, pushing Patsy onto her back on the small twin mattress. 

 

Delia is as attentive and meticulous with her Patsy’s body as she is with her studies, memorizing every curve and detail: the faded scars along her shoulders, the beauty mark along her rib cage, the faint stretch marks along her breasts that serve as a reminder of the late transition to womanhood. Patsy allows herself to feel safe under Delia’s touch, closing her eyes to revel in the sensation of Delia’s hands and mouth, the hum of her throat close to her skin as she continues to move against Patsy. 

 

“Oh, Pats,” Delia moans, when she finally, blissfully, blessedly feels the arousal that has been building in Patsy for ages. 

 

“Yes. Well. You have that effect on me,” Patsy manages to strangle out, before Delia sets to pleasuring her with the same attention to detail and relentlessly playful sense of humour that made her fall in love with her in the first place. 

_

 

Afterwards, as they lay in a sweaty, messy heap on the cramped mattress, Delia can’t help but look a little pleased with herself. 

 

(It’s not everyone that can reduce Patience Mount to a pile of moans and pleas, thankyouverymuch.) 

 

“I think that was almost worth the wait.” 

 

Patsy is adamant. 

 

“Absolutely not, Delia. We could have done that a hundred times over already.” 

 

Delia giggles. 

 

“No use dwelling on the past, though.” She checks her watch. 

 

“Shall we make up for lost time while we’ve got it?” 

  
Some questions need no answer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompts are always welcome and appreciated! 
> 
> hope it was as good for you as it was for me ;)


	13. Something Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sister Julienne welcomes Nurse Busby into the fold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the inspiration, @think_busby_think! 
> 
> (I think my Julienne is heavily influenced by A Matter of Trust, so credit where credit is due :D)

It has been a season of change at Nonnatus House. 

 

Midwifery serves as a constant reminder of both the fragility and pugnacity of life, but the past year seems to have brought more than its fair share of loss and pain to Poplar. 

 

Sister Julienne trusts the Lord’s will in these trials, but there are moments when her prayers have felt unanswered, when she can only throw herself into service to others in order to calm the sea of grief that churns mercilessly in unbidden moments of quiet. 

 

But God has always shown himself through the cracks of that which is broken. 

 

Autumn is quickly fading to winter, and the absence of Sister Evangelina is becoming a charge to carry her torch instead of a reminder of the darkness left in her wake. Sister Julienne allows herself to step back and look at where hope has begin to live again in these hallowed walls. 

 

She sees the way Nurse Franklin has opened herself to love from her friends, how her burdens have lessened without the additional weight of secrecy. How the compassion she has for her patients has begun to extend to herself. 

 

She sees Nurse Gilbert walking taller than ever before, carrying just a fraction of the command that Sister Evangelina brought with her to every setting. Sister Winifred respecting more the meaning behind vows of poverty, and the difference between grace and pity. 

 

She sees Nurse Mount and Nurse Crane thanklessly working around the clock in what looks to be fastidious devotion to duty, but truly amounts to an almost endless capacity for love. 

 

She sees Sister Mary Cynthia summoning a bravery beyond herself, growing in her faith to stand up for those who cannot speak for themselves. In her faint tenor, she sometimes imagines she hears the echoes of Sister Evangelina’s resonant baritone.

 

She sees Sister Monica Joan, who haunted the halls for months after Evangelina’s death, regaling an enraptured Nurse Busby with tales of her own entry into midwifery, and looking, for a moment, like her former self. 

 

Death is not an ending, but a transition. 

_

 

_ “ _ _ For this is the message that ye heard from the beginning, that we should love one another.” _

 

It was the commandment of John’s that inspired Sister Julienne to join an open order, living in service to others. Christ is very clear that love is not meant to extend only to the religious, or to the moral, or those otherwise deemed deserving. In her years in Poplar, Julienne has been witness to love in many forms. 

 

Love had shone brilliantly when Sister Bernadette left the order to marry Dr. Turner, but it had dimmed and muddied under the strain of Nurse Franklin and the Reverend Hereward’s courtship. 

 

Love had guided Sister Mary Cynthia to abandon her friends and the life she had expected to lead to answer a greater call. 

 

It had led her to leave a young man waiting at the pictures, and it had let her share one last matinee with a dying man. 

 

John stressed that love is the only thing that matters, the sole commandment by which all other divine ends are reached. 

 

Sister Julienne had worried and prayed often when Nurse Mount first arrived at Nonnatus house. Her nursing credentials were pristine, and she was clearly a capable clinician, but her psychological walls seemed nearly insurmountable. It was remarkable to see the difference in her demeanor with Nurse Busby. Hardened lines around her eyes softened, and frequently pursed lips smiled easily. There was a joy and gentleness to their interactions that only exists between two souls with no barriers of pride or vanity or selfishness between them. Such friends are hard to find, and the loss of Nurse Busby’s accident must have been much harder for Nurse Mount than she let on.

 

She had endeavored to show love to her over the dark months that followed, in ways that would not be spotted with suspicion. A particularly exciting case here; strategic scheduling of rounds there; an extra prayer for Nurse Busby’s health in addition to her own patients’. 

 

Sister Julienne had not premeditated inviting Nurse Busby to stay at Nonnatus, but as she sees her don the blue uniform for the first time, she realizes that the Lord may have had intentions beyond her own aspirations of kindness. 

_

 

Returning to her quarters after compline, Sister Julienne hears the buzz of the television, and turns to shut off the set before retiring. The faint glow illumines the slumbering figures of Nurses Mount and Busby, who must have dozed off after a very long day of deliveries. Over the years, Sister Julienne has stumbled upon a surprisingly high number of young women asleep in such a way, after community dances or clinics, or New Year Champagne toasts. But their fingers are never entwined tightly, thoughtlessly,  _ reflexively _ like this. As if slumbering next to one another were something practiced, not happenstance. 

 

In her work with mothers of all walks of life, Sister Julienne has made it a point to avoid moralism. Babies, after all, are innocent. 

 

And she has been quick to help her colleagues at Nonnatus, no matter what potential shame of their circumstances. She hopes that she has extended the same compassion to Nurse Mount and Nurse Busby. And there is certainly nothing criminal or shameful about two people holding hands. 

 

Sister Julienne grabs a throw off the arm of the sofa and covers the young women to keep away the draft. Then, she prays for guidance. 

_

 

It is said that God has three answers to prayers: “Yes, No, and Not Yet.” 

 

Sister Julienne is more than used to receiving silence in response to requests, or signs that appear cryptically at a later moment, revealing themselves through unexpected means. She had not, however, anticipated Sister Evangelina’s input on this particular query. 

 

“There’s no reason to make a big fuss out of nothing, until you have a reason to make it your business. Besides, it’s not like they could run off and get pregnant.” 

 

It’s nice to know that the grave has not softened her edge. 

 

She supposes it is possible that the two women are completely and utterly in love with one another in a way entirely devoid of lust. And she supposes that it is safest for everyone that she maintains this belief. 

 

Because without the element of sin, the love between the two women is as good and powerful as any other. She has witnessed how they bring out the best in one another, how their own vanity crumbles in the face of the pride they have for one another. She knows that a Nurse Mount without a Nurse Busby would not have lasted two months in Nonnatus House, much less become a cornerstone of their community. 

_

 

Sister Julienne has made it a custom to take time to have tea with each new nurse when they arrive. Nurse Busby is certainly no stranger, but she makes a point to keep the tradition. 

 

“Well sugared, with lots of milk.” 

 

“Thank you, Sister.” 

 

Nurse Busby is timid behind her teacup, in contrast to her usual mirth.

 

“I assure you, this is not meant to be a punishment, but a welcome, Nurse. We are all very glad to have you joining us as a midwife.” 

 

Nurse Busby blushes. 

 

“I apologise Sister- I’m afraid Patsy’s stories about nuns at boarding school have left me a bit intimidated, by proxy.” 

 

Sister Julienne smiles warmly, holding out her open palms. 

 

“No rulers here.” 

 

The younger woman’s shoulders relax, and she allows herself a small smile at the nun’s joke. 

 

“I know that living in a convent was not your first choice, but I do hope you’ve felt welcomed here.” 

 

“Very much so, Sister. I can’t imagine I would have ever dared to pursue midwifery if I didn’t already feel a bit like one of the fold.” 

 

“And fortunately for us, you’re already familiar with the rules and expectations of Nonnatus House. It has been a difficult transition for some of our young women, even if we do not ask the same of our nurses as our sisters.” 

 

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much help at compline anyhow, my mother always said I can’t carry a tune in a bucket.” 

 

“I would be quick to remind your mother that scripture commands us to make a joyful noise, not a tuneful one.” 

 

Sister Julienne chooses her next words carefully. 

 

“One of my other favorite pieces of scripture commands that ‘he who is without sin cast the first stone.’” 

 

Nurse Busby nods slowly, in trepidation, and Sister Julienne attempts to keep her gaze as kind as possible. 

 

“I am not in the habit of policing my nurses, nor judging them for decisions they might make differently than my own, so long as there is no harm done. But there are certain matters, which were I made privy to, I would be forced to act out of moral obligation.”

 

“Of course, Sister,” Nurse Busby croaks. 

 

“I gave up many notions of privacy when I joined the order, but I would never dream to ask the same of you. All I ask for is restraint, which I know you are more than capable of.”

Nurse Busby nods mutely. 

 

“I want to emphasize that we do consider you and Nurse Mount as members of our family, and with that consideration comes much trust and respect. It would take a great deal to damage those bonds.” 

 

It would seem that Nurse Busby has a propensity for bringing unscripted declarations out of her, that don’t bear their true meaning until well after the fact. 

 

Sister Julienne grasps Nurse Busby’s hand between her own and looks her in the eye. 

 

“I want you to know that  _ you _ are welcome here. Just as God made you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the religious stuff is fairly accurate, but I'm a lapsed presbyterian, so what do i know! 
> 
> perhaps i was being a little fanciful in my interpretation of Julienne's perception of Patsy and Delia, but THIS IS HAPPY ESCAPISM DAMMIT 
> 
> prompts and comments are always valued and appreciated <3 <3 <3


	14. My Favorite Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from tumblr:  
> "Fic prompt: Delia confirming with Patsy her feelings/memories after the accident Wondering if all they did were fantasies in her head or something?"
> 
> (slightly short, slightly smutty.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope i killed two birds with one stone with this one, as i had another request for more *sexitimes* hahaha

The air is bitterly cold tonight, stinging Delia’s exposed cheeks and nose as she and Patsy reluctantly exit the phone booth. She’s exhausted from the evening’s journey, and emotionally spent from seeing Patsy for the first time since the accident.

 

But she’s not ready to go home yet. 

 

“Pats?” 

 

“Yes, Deels?” 

 

(Patsy is trying her hardest to return to normal, but she can’t help but keep a buffer of caution in her tone. It all seems too lucky, as if her Delia will shatter into a million pieces at the slightest provocation, leaving her more alone than ever before.) 

 

“Could we walk, just a bit longer?” 

 

Patsy frowns. 

 

“In this cold?” 

 

Delia blushes. 

 

“I had some… things I wanted to ask you about, and I’m not sure we could find anywhere so private as the pavement.” 

 

Patsy’s eyes widen in understanding. 

 

“Yes, of course, Delia.” 

 

She smiles softly. 

 

“Anything for you.” 

 

Delia lets her legs gather their rhythm before she starts. 

 

“As my memories came back, and I remembered you, us, well, a lot of them came as dreams, or almost like imagining as a child, playing pretend when I should have been focusing on my lessons, you know?” 

 

“And you were focusing on your teacher instead? I’m onto you, Miss Busby,” Patsy grins. 

 

Delia giggles. 

 

“Precisely! So, I just wanted to confirm, before I have to leave you again, what actually happened between us. “

 

A familiar glint returns to her eye. 

 

“To keep me warm on those cold Welsh nights, you understand.” 

 

“But of course,” Patsy manages to husk out, “it’s the least I can do.” 

 

(She could cry, it’s such a relief to have this side of Delia back as well, but that would truly ruin the moment. Tears can wait for when Trixie politely pretends to be asleep.) 

 

“So, that trip to the seaside?” 

 

Patsy smiles in memory of their first weekend away together. 

 

“At the hotel with the queen bed?” 

 

“And we?” 

 

Patsy thinks back to those wonderful two days, how it rained and poured and the other nurses laughed at their holiday misfortune. She reaches out of her long coat sleeve to grasp Delia’s hand in her own. 

 

(She hopes Delia remembers how big a gesture it is for her.) 

 

“It was the first time I got to see all of you.” 

 

Delia nods, shyly, as her confidence in her recollection grows. 

 

“You were so beautiful, Patsy.” 

 

For all her bravado and confidence to the world at large, Patsy hadn’t felt particularly beautiful, not next to Delia’s diminutive grace and feminine curves. But Delia had worshipped each revealed blemish and scar, molding their bodies together until, for the first time, Patsy felt as though she were part of someone else. 

 

Patsy feels a prick of wetness at the corner of her eye, and sniffles, squeezing Delia’s hand. 

 

“It was the first time I told you that I loved you.” 

 

Delia smiles now. 

 

“I was eons ahead of you on that front, wasn’t I? Mam always said that I spoke first and thought later.” 

 

“You’ve always been braver than me, Deels. It’s one of the things I love most about you.” 

 

They round the corner to make a big loop back to the bus stop. Delia checks her watch, to ensure she has time to relish all the memories she can manage. She’ll never hear the end of her lateness from her mother, but that ship has sailed, anyhow. 

 

“And that supply closet at the hospital?” 

 

“I’m not proud of that one, but it did happen. We had had almost a month of conflicting shifts. It was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.” 

 

Delia frowns, guiltily. 

 

“And I have never had a better ten minutes in my life.” 

 

(She never could stay mad at Delia, anyhow.) 

 

“Wait just a minute- that closet was your idea, Pats!” 

 

“Yes, well, when a girl gets used to certain attentions it can be hard to quit cold turkey.” 

 

Delia smirks. 

 

“Well, at least I was good, it seems.” 

 

“The absolute best.” 

 

“Does that mean there were others?” 

 

(Of all the thoughts that had passed through her addled mind, that had never been one of them.)

 

“Goodness, no! Delia, it was always, and will always be only you.” 

 

“I should hope so!” 

 

“Anything else?” 

 

“Did we ever.. At the convent?” 

 

Patsy laughs. 

“I’m glad to say that that one seems entirely a figment of your imagination. Although we did once eat fish and chips in chapel, so rest assured that we’ve sinned aplenty.” 

 

Delia begins to sag as she strolls, and Patsy can’t fight her caretaking instinct any longer. 

 

“You’re looking tired, Deels, and I want you to get home safely, even if it can’t be with me. Shall I wait for your bus with you?” 

 

“I’d like that.” 

 

Mam is not at all pleased with Delia’s bleary-eyed state in the morning (“ _ you know how important it is to get your proper rest, cariad”), _ but how could she have slept, with Patsy so fresh now in her mind? The richness of her voice, the softness of her hand, the sharp cleanliness of her scent. Delia swears she levitates off of her bed, so electrified is she. 

_ 

 

“Delia, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you could read the future,” Patsy pants, as the aforementioned seer kisses down her jaw towards her clavicle. 

 

“Mmm, well I’ve always been very clever.” 

 

“Humble too,” Patsy punctuates with a squeeze to the strong thighs currently pinning her to Delia’s bed. 

 

“I don’t believe you were wearing these pesky pajamas in my dreams, though,” she harrumphs around a particularly obstinate button. 

 

“Well, sometimes reality pales in comparison.” 

 

Patsy gasps as Delia’s nimble fingers finally work their way under her top to caress a woefully neglected breast. 

 

“Nothing could ever compare to the real you, Pats. Nothing.” 

 

“God, I’ve missed this,” Patsy hisses as Delia slips another hand through the elastic of her trousers. 

 

“Patsy?” 

 

“Yes, Deels?” 

 

“Maybe hold off on invoking the lord’s name for the time being? It seems a little on the nose at the moment.” 

 

Patsy grins wickedly. 

  
“I promise Delia, from here on out the only name I will be invoking will be yours.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompts and ideas are always welcome- i'm afraid my imagination is not always so vivid as dear Delia's ;)
> 
> thanks for reading- y'all's comments are a joy and a wonderful antidote to the ever-growing despair of living in America during this election cycle. #imwithher


	15. Do I Love You Because You're Beautiful?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As requested, the seaside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid this is rather more angst/fluff than smut. Kindly forgive and use your imagination as necessary. 
> 
> (I know others have included Patsy's s2 appearance in fic, and I hope i didn't crib from anyone else's interpretation, but if so, thank you and sorry)

Patsy doesn’t tell Delia about her job interview. 

 

It feels like a betrayal, even though god knows Delia Busby is the only thing keeping her at the London. And their relationship has always been a bit “we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” The usual plans don’t apply. No wedding, no children, no vision of a life built together that the world might actually acknowledge. Patsy doesn’t have the words to tell Delia how much she means to her. 

 

Or rather, she doesn’t have the strength to say them against the weight of everything else. 

 

But even sweet, lovely, darling Delia can do little to lessen the misery of the condescending doctors and lecherous patients of the last month. Patsy knows she’s become a terrible bore, too, chain smoking through her breaks and slowly fraying away at what little kindness she keeps in reserve. She maintains pleasantries with the other nurses, making appearances at drinks and dancing and swapping shifts or bumming cigs in order to keep up all the friendships of convenience she’s made over the past two years. 

 

Delia is so very patient with her, she nearly bursts into tears each time they manage a moment together. 

 

“I honestly don’t know how you bear me, Deels,” she whispers as the brunette holds her close, comforting her after another interminably long day on the ward. 

 

“Easy, Pats. I love you.” 

 

Delia says the words like they’re the most natural answer to the question in the world. Like they’re the most natural answer to every question she’s ever had and ever will have. 

 

Patsy hates her cowardice. 

 

“That doesn’t mean you don’t deserve better.” 

 

Delia is nothing if not stubborn. 

 

“I don’t  _ want  _ better,” she proclaims, her accent sternly clipping her ‘t’s’ into submission,

 

“I want  _ you. _ ”

 

Patsy doesn’t feel deserving of Delia’s kindness, but she is too tired to fight tonight. She lets Delia’s cool touch to her forehead soothe her into a (thankfully) dreamless sleep. 

_

 

“Patsy, are you going to the dance on Saturday?” 

 

Muriel is the de facto coordinator of the ward’s social calendar, and she is exceedingly difficult to reject. 

 

“Oh well, I don’t know…” 

 

“Please say you will,” Gertrude insists. She’s a few years younger than the other girls, and has taken to seeing Patsy as a sort of role model, heaven knows why. 

 

“Actually,” a Welsh voice interrupts, “Patsy can’t make it to the dance because she’s taking a much needed weekend away to the seaside.” 

 

Delia has a preternatural gift for showing up in the nick of time. 

 

Patsy looks to her with a raised eyebrow. 

 

Delia’s firm nod leaves no room for protest. 

 

“Delia’s right. I’ve been so frazzled that I completely forgot about our plans for a girls’ weekend.” 

 

“Oh, boo!” Muriel scoffs. “At least bring us back some bon bons, if you two aren’t going to be kind enough to take us along for the adventure.” 

 

Delia smirks. 

 

“Look on the bright side, Muriel. This way that chap you fancy won’t be making goo goo eyes at Patsy all evening.” 

 

Patsy rolls her eyes. 

 

“Honestly, I think he’s terrified of me more than anything, but I’m sure you girls will have just as much fun as us, if not more, knowing you two.” 

 

Muriel and Gertrude pair off to plan their prospective night out, while Patsy tugs Delia aside. 

 

“A weekend away, huh?” 

 

“Cleared your schedule with matron and everything. She agrees that you could use a bit of a holiday.” 

 

“I’ve never actually been to the seaside. You’re not dragging me all the way to Wales are you? I’m not sure I’m quite ready to meet your family.” 

Delia chuckles. 

 

“No, Pats, this is supposed to be an enjoyable weekend, not the inquisition. We’re going to Brighton.” 

_

 

Delia insists on making the weekend as full of surprise as possible for Patsy, going so far as to pack her suitcase. 

 

Early shifts mean they can reach the beach before sunset on Friday, but they are well and truly knackered by the time they reach the hotel. 

 

Patsy flops ungracefully on the spacious mattress as they unpack their belongings. 

 

“Come on now, Pats,” Delia frowns. “I’ll let you sleep in tomorrow, but we’re going out tonight. Now put on the blue frock I like so much and take me to the cinema.” 

 

Patsy cracks open one eye suspiciously. 

 

“I thought this was supposed to be a treat for me, Deels.” 

 

“Sometimes you need a little encouragement to let loose. I’m merely guiding you in the right direction.” 

 

Delia is right, as always. The film is a delight, some splashy romantic comedy that will soon be forgotten, but purely sufficient escapism. Delia holds her hand and leans on her shoulder in the back of the theater, and Patsy finds herself watching the brunette more than the blonde on-screen. She almost whispers the words that have been waiting for so long, but Delia senses her trepidation and mouths “ _ Are you alright?”  _ and all she can do is nod mutely and attempt to school her attention back to the film. 

 

Delia insists on walking the pier in the clear moonlight, munching on a large cone of chips and marveling at the gauche neon that illumines the path. 

 

“I don’t suppose you could win me one of those carnival prizes,” she teases. 

 

“I’m afraid my aim is rather rubbish. Though I would gladly bribe the attendant if you truly want a teddy bear.” 

 

Delia pouts. 

 

“I’d rather cuddle with you.” 

 

It feels good to be a stranger, to walk free of worry, with all the tourists so caught up in the sights around them that they can’t be bothered to notice two girls hopelessly in love with one another. 

_

Delia wakes her early, with a mug of coffee she’s managed to purloin from the cafe downstairs. 

 

“Come on, let’s get to the beach before the sun rises.” 

 

“What happened to sleeping in.” 

 

“I lied. You’ll thank me later, I promise.” 

 

The sunrise, is, as promised, absolutely lovely, though clouds try their very best to hide the rays of light from climbing over the horizon. They quickly succeed, and a sudden squall drenches the two women before they can make it back to the safety of their hotel.

They slog up the stairs leaving puddles in their wake, Delia giggling while Patsy fumes. 

 

“I could still be asleep and dry!” 

 

Delia opens the door to their suite, ushering her inside. 

 

“But if you were asleep, could I do this?” 

 

She teases her with a nip to her jaw. 

 

“Actually you very well could, I just wouldn’t feel it.” 

 

“Always semantics with you, Patience.” 

 

“ _ Patience?”  _

 

Delia smirks.

 

“Have I reminded you that I love you?” 

 

“You say that…” 

 

Delia drops her ruse, and brings Patsy in for a proper kiss. 

 

“I love you, Patience Elizabeth Mount. Now may I get you out of these wet clothes?” 

 

Delia is reverent as she removes Patsy’s slacks and shirt, leaving the wet fabric in a heap on the tile. She directs Patsy to the bed before removing her own clothing. 

 

Patsy stares, open mouthed and transfixed, as Delia lifts her frock over her head. 

 

Delia catches her in the act once free of her collar. 

 

“Oh come on now, I look like a drowned rat!” 

 

Patsy shakes her head solemnly. 

 

“You’re beautiful, Delia.” 

 

The words are hardly new, and yet they make her blush each time, just the same. 

 

“And I love you.” 

 

Delia leaps on the bed to meet Patsy in a heated embrace. 

 

“What was that now,” she whispers as she entwines her legs with the blonde’s.

 

“I love you, Delia,” Patsy punctuates with a determined kiss,

 

“And I am so sorry it’s taken me so dreadfully long to say so. You mean the world and a half to me, you know?” 

 

Delia grins. 

 

“I was hoping so, but my mam always discouraged betting, so it’s quite good to know for certain.” 

 

“Delia?” 

 

Patsy grabs her wrist, halting her hands confident descent towards its final destination.

 

“Yes, Pats?” 

 

“I would muchly appreciate it if you could refrain from speaking about your mother while I’m naked.” 

 

“Duly noted.” 

_

The most decadent part of the weekend is simply lying about post-coitally. Pillow talk is a luxury, even when sex isn’t. 

 

“Delia? I need to tell you something?” 

 

“Did you forget that you told me you love me? Because, if so, frankly I’m impressed with myself.” 

 

“I applied for a job.” 

 

Delia’s easy smile fades. 

 

“Away from the London?” 

 

“At a Florist’s. In Chelsea.” 

 

Delia blanches. 

 

“But that’s so far away! We could hardly ever make time to see one another.” 

 

“I didn’t get it, Deels.”

 

Delia is fuming now.

 

“But you didn’t  _ tell  _ me. Am I not worthy of being included in your life plans, Patsy? Am I just some fun distraction until you move on?” 

 

“Of course not, Delia. I just… I can’t bear the thought of another year on Male Surgical. Some days the promise of passing you in the hall is the only thing that gets me out of bed.” 

 

Delia glowers for a moment more. 

 

“I  do love you. So much that it absolutely terrifies me. Maybe I was running from that a bit, too.” 

 

“But a Florist’s! Honestly.” 

 

“Well, obviously they didn’t think me fit for the position, either.” 

 

Delia laughs, and moves closer to her once more, skin to skin, and heart to heart. 

 

“You know, Patsy, you can be a nurse without working with men. Who was that girl you worked with last month?” 

 

“Nurse Lee, the Midwife? Oh Delia, I don’t much like babies.” 

 

“You wouldn’t have to raise them, Patsy. No one’s asking  _ you  _ to give birth.” 

 

“I suppose it’s something to consider.” 

 

“Yes, well, perhaps you could table it for later discussion? I have some very urgent matters here that need attention, Nurse Mount.” 

 

(She’s never been one to shirk her duty.) 

_

 

“You poor girls- a whole weekend at the seaside washed away in constant rain! I bet you wished you’d stayed and danced with us instead.” 

 

Patsy procures the promised candies, only slightly damp from the wet journey. 

 

“I don’t know, it was nice to have a break from you lot,” she teases. 

 

“We love you too, Patsy,” Muriel groans. 

 

Delia winks as she ties on her apron for another dull shift. 

 

“Anyhow, tell me about the dance. Did anyone break a toe this time?” 

 

The doctors are still insufferable, and the patients are as handsy as ever, but for today, at least, it all doesn’t seem so impossible. 

  
Rain doesn’t fall so hard when you’re in love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as you can see, i cave easily to popular demand. 
> 
> the next week is really busy for me, so i don't know that I'll have time for any updates, but if you have requests or prompts i will do my best to brainstorm and write mentally so i can churn something out in a reasonable time frame.


	16. The Happiest House on the Block

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For @gigi_nutshell
> 
> Fill-in-the-blanks for 4x08- what exactly happened between the picnic and THE INCIDENT OF WHICH WE SHALL NOT SPEAK? 
> 
> or: fluffy smut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the prompt! i feel like writing lesbian sex scenes is a really great way to stick it to Mike Pence, so...

“Welcome home.” 

 

Delia’s grin nearly splits her face in half as she and Patsy toast to the next chapter of their life. 

 

She pauses in thought, before taking a drink.

 

“Not that I don’t appreciate this beautiful picnic, Pats, but I would have thought you’d’ve gone for a bottle of wine.” 

 

Patsy bites her lower lip gently. 

 

“I wanted to remember every detail of tonight.” 

 

Delia stretches out her bare legs, wiggling her toes in the air. 

 

“What, like the dust on my calves? And this threadbare blanket?” 

 

Patsy sets down her glass and reaches for Delia’s hand, running her thumb across her pulse point.

 

“I want to remember how beautiful your face looks, completely bare of makeup. And I want to remember how strong and capable your dusty legs were as we cleaned this filthy, wonderful flat.” 

 

She looks to Delia’s neckline, lump forming in her throat. 

 

“I want to remember the how the sunlight is shining on your ring. How within these walls, I’m yours, and you’re mine.” 

 

Delia rises up onto her knees, clasping Patsy’s face between her hands and kissing her gently. 

 

“I think I’ve had quite enough to eat, Pats.” 

 

“Let me put the basket away.” 

 

Delia pushes the food off to the corner. 

 

“That’s good enough.” 

 

“You know it’s killing me not to tidy it properly.”

 

Delia quickly closes the space between them, her voice husking to a whisper. 

 

“I’ve waited so long for this, Patsy. I really don’t think I could handle another moment of waiting.” 

 

Delia has always been incredibly good at distracting Patsy. At  _ driving  _ her to distraction, more often than not. 

 

“Who am I to argue with that?” 

 

Patsy pulls Delia into a slow kiss. It takes a moment to turn off her reflexes- always keeping one eye open, any indecent parts covered in event of a quick escape, her reactions muffled and subdued. 

 

Without the threat of a nosy nurse (or nun, for that matter), she can commit every sensation to memory. 

 

The happy sigh as Delia opens her mouth, teasing Patsy’s lips with her tongue. 

 

The essence of Delia, free from perfume or disinfectant. She smells like the beach, and castile soap, and  _ home.  _

 

The incredible _softness_ of the skin of Delia’s arms.

 

It never ceases to amaze her, really, just  _ how  _ soft, and smooth, and utterly delightful touching Delia is. Patsy spent so many hours wondering, praying, trying her best to ignore just how much she wanted to know what Delia felt like, that she was absolutely certain the real thing would be a disappointment. 

 

But touching Delia is a revelation, each and every time. She never knew that anything in this world could feel so  _ right.  _

 

Sometimes she thinks that if everyone could touch Delia Busby’s skin, they wouldn’t judge her for being a lesbian at all. 

 

(But then the thought of anyone else touching Delia enrages her, and she’s quick to tamp down on her hypothesising.) 

 

Delia’s hands have begun to undo the top buttons on Patsy’s blouse, and she moves to straddle the redhead, who plants her hands on the floor for balance. 

 

She moves as though modesty never occurred to her as an option. 

 

Patsy loves it. 

 

She loves  _ Her.  _

 

_ She loves her, and she doesn’t have to hide it.  _

 

Patsy lifts reaches up to stop Delia’s hands as they begin to unfasten the tie of her frock. 

 

“I like this on you.” 

 

Delia raises a brow, aghast. 

 

“Patience Mount. Are you telling me you  _ don’t  _ want to see me naked? That is certainly a first.” 

 

Patsy narrows her eyes contentiously. 

 

“Oh, I  _ certainly  _ want to see you naked, Delia. I just intend to make you work for it a bit.” 

 

Delia blushes. 

 

For as many hardships and trials Patsy has been through, there is no greater victory than bringing red to Delia Busby’s cheeks. 

 

She  _ loves  _ her. 

 

Patsy pulls Delia closer to her, running her hands up heated thighs. 

 

“Mmmmmmph” 

 

Patsy begins to pepper kisses across Delia’s jawline, hands exploring the curves hidden beneath her (admittedly tiny) skirt. 

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that, Deels. What was that?” 

 

“I think I would hate you if that didn’t feel so incredible.” 

 

“Good. Because I love you.” 

 

Patsy pauses her ministrations for a moment, to meet Delia’s eyes. 

 

“Terribly so. You’re it for me, Delia. For richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health. I know I’m not good at saying these things out loud, but I love you. Forever, or as long as you’ll have me, whichever comes first.” 

 

Delia grasps Patsy’s roaming hands with her own. 

 

“I love you, Patsy. It’s a good thing you reciprocate because I fear you’ll have a very difficult time scaring me off.” 

 

Delia pecks her on the nose. 

 

“I want fifty years of nights in with you. I want wrinkles and arthritis and orthopedic shoes. But right now?” 

 

Patsy raises a brow. 

 

“I really, really, really want  _ you _ .” 

 

Patsy doesn’t have to be asked twice. 

 

They’ve not even got a proper mattress, but she can at least prop a pillow behind Delia’s head as she lays her down on the picnic blanket. (It’s a good thing she already washed the floors- good lord.) 

 

Patsy resumes her path down Delia’s neck, ghosting kisses along the ridge of Delia’s collarbone, skimming fingers lightly across the fabric covering her breasts. Delia’s little whimpers of pleasure and frustration build in frequency and duration, until her hands apply pressure on Patsy’s shoulder, pleading silently for her to hasten her journey. 

 

Patsy kisses up from knee to hip, hooking her fingers in the elastic at Delia’s waist. 

 

“May I take these off?” 

 

“Please,” Delia huffs out in annoyance. “But you want me to keep the rest on?” 

 

“I’ll compromise,” Patsy offers, tugging to pull the knot of Delia’s belt fully loose and trailing her fingers over the newly exposed abdomen. 

 

When Patsy was in school, girls would whisper about this sort of thing, performed by boyfriends who wanted a bit of a roll in the hay without the chance of knocking anyone up. She always thought that it sounded like the most vile thing in the world, but then, well, Delia happened. And nothing about Delia is  _ remotely  _ vile. 

 

Of course, back then, she also thought that lovemaking anywhere but in a bed was incredibly declasse. Things certainly change. 

 

She’s not quite sure which sensation is better, the feeling of Delia against her mouth, or the sight of her above, mouth open in rapture, head tilted back in ecstasy. Delia has always felt everything more deeply, and this setting is no different from any other. 

 

She is magnificent. 

 

Patsy wants to draw the climb out forever, but she also wants to reach the peak again and again, taking her love to higher heights than they ever thought possible. The insistence of Delia’s hand tugging at her hair convinces her to quicken her motions until she can feel Delia quivering against her. Her trimmed nails rake gently across the tops of Delia’s thighs, and she shivers slightly as Patsy pulls herself up to lie beside her. 

 

She’s prepared to simply hold Delia, to breathe her in as she comes down, but Delia quickly rolls over on top of her, peppering her face with kisses. 

 

“Deels, honestly, let yourself rest.” 

 

“I don’t want to rest. I’ll rest when we’re apart. I want to show you how much I love you, Patsy. I want you to feel as wonderful as you make me feel, every single moment we’re together. “ 

 

Delia haphazardly discards her watch, the metal clunking against the hardwood floor. 

 

She finishes the work she started on removing Patsy’s blouse, before she was so rudely interrupted. 

 

“I want to see you, Patsy. Is that okay?” 

 

The neighbors are gone, the blinds are drawn, and the walls are thick. 

 

Saying yes has never been easier. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's fun to dip my toe back into the canon universe... if you've got a prompt hit me up on tumblr @blueblue-baby <3


	17. Impossible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delia's a bit miffed at Tom's proposal. 
> 
> (in which I project my frustrations with the Christmas Special.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back on that canon train now we've got material to work from! hope to keep on with bits and pieces as we make our way through s6 (looks like there will be plenty of blanks to fill, as it were.)

“And so I told him, for the love of god, _don’t_ give Barbara another hand-me-down. She’s had a lifetime full of other people’s leftovers, and she deserves only the best and brightest.”

 

Trixie is splayed elegantly across her bed, chain-smoking and regaling Patsy and Delia with all the details of Barbara and Tom’s engagement, while the aforementioned couple celebrates with a night out on the town.  She takes a long drag before continuing.

 

“Of course, a blade of grass isn’t really what I had in mind, but, men really do hear what they want to hear, don’t they?”

 

Delia rolls her eyes, unable to hide her annoyance.

 

“It all sounds _terribly_ romantic.”

 

Patsy lightly chastises Delia with a hand on her shoulder before redirecting Trixie to more interesting stories.

 

“You’re an incredible friend, Trix, and Barbara is lucky to have you. But I have to admit that I’m a bit more interested in your medical exploits than just how Tom proposed. Now what was this I heard Nurse Crane mention about a Caesarian Section?”

 

Trixie’s eyes brighten as she takes them through the harrowing procedure, and tearful aftermath. Unfortunately, her storytelling is interrupted by the phone’s shrill ring, but she doesn’t look altogether put out.

 

“I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to be working again in Poplar, even if it does mean braving the elements at all hours.”

 

Patsy and Delia see her off, offering condolences and encouragement before returning to the privacy of the bedroom.

 

“What was that, Deels? You’re hardly ever so short with Trix.”

 

Patsy begins her inquiry admonishing, but softens when she sees how defeated Delia looks.

 

“Talk to me? Please?”

 

“Doesn’t it drive you mad?”

 

Patsy allows a slight smile to turn the corner of her lips at Delia’s vagueness.

 

“Lots of things drive me mad, Delia. I may need a bit more specificity.”

 

Delia peps up the slightest bit in answer to Patsy’s loving teasing.

 

“Does it not drive you mad how one Reverend Tom Hereward, who it seems was only _just_ engaged to one Trixie Franklin, has freely and openly proposed to one Barbara Gilbert, while you and I can’t even hold hands in public?”

 

Patsy sighs, permitting the frustration she’s been keeping at bay to seep into her bones, as well.

 

“It does seem more than a bit unjust, yes. But you’re not telling me you’d rather get a sprig of foliage from Tom than a stolen kiss from me, are you?”

 

Delia huffs, leaning her head on Patsy’s shoulder.

 

“I’d rather eat a cup of cold sick than do such a thing.”

 

She threads her fingers through Patsy’s, relishing the illicit act.

 

“It was so nice being here with you while everyone was gone, Pats.”

 

Patsy arches a brow.

 

“Even though we were so worked to the bone you fell asleep in your soup one night?”

 

Delia nods, solemnly.

 

“It felt like we were a team, a true partnership. It felt like we had privacy, Monica Joan’s light night kitchen explorations, aside. But now that the other nurses are back, it just feels like we were only playing at pretend.”

 

“Well I certainly wasn’t _pretending_ on New Year’s Eve. Or the morning after. And that Tuesday afternoon we had alone.”

 

Delia scoffs, faux-affronted.

 

“I should hope not!”

 

Sometimes, Patsy can’t look at Delia, for fear her heart will burst.

 

She never really thought she could truly love _anyone,_ and to feel this unimaginable, monumental, _consuming_ affection for another human being is just too overwhelming at times.

 

(Delia remarked that when they were students, she sort of thought she always had something stuck in her teeth, the way Patsy would embarrassedly glance away after scrutinizing her.)

 

She risks catastrophe this time though, meeting Delia’s eyes with a fierce intensity.

 

“This was my third-favourite Christmas of all time.”

 

“That doesn’t sound like especially high praise,” Delia pouts.

 

“Has anyone ever told you you can be awfully impatient?”

 

“Yes, mam,” Delia sing-songs.

 

“Do you remember the Christmas you took me to see _Cinderella?_ ”

 

Delia blushes at the memory of her youthful boldness and optimism.

 

“Of course I do.”

 

Patsy beams, recalling the evening, seemingly straight from a fairy-tale.

 

“That was my second favourite. I remember thinking how impossible it seemed that you might return my affections in the slightest, and yet, here we are.”

 

Delia pecks her on the cheek in response, before motioning for Patsy to finish her grand declaration.

 

“It hardly feels like a year ago that I thought I would be spending Christmas alone for the rest of my life.”

 

She squeezes Delia’s hand firmly, swallowing down the lump in her throat that emerges whenever she thinks back to that horrid time.

 

“You,” Patsy kisses Delia’s forehead, “are the best gift anyone could ever have. And any part of this life I get to share with you is a thousand times better than a life shared fully with anyone else.”

 

Delia kisses Patsy properly this time, her lips imparting novels’ worth of promises and apologies and wholehearted agreement.

 

Patsy holds Delia’s head to her chest, clasping the brunette tightly, as if to imprint this nascent memory into her skin. She hums and sways, Delia’s lips smiling against her neck as she recognizes the tune.

 

_“But the world is full of zanies and fools,_

_Who don’t believe in sensible rules,_

_And won’t believe what sensible people say,_

_And because these daft and dewy-eyed dopes keep building up impossible hopes,_

_Impossible things are happening every day.”_

 

Delia smirks.

 

“Oh, so I’m daft now, am I?”

 

“Sometimes, for putting up with me, I think you might be.”

 

Delia pushes herself up to look at Patsy from a level vantage point.

 

“You underestimate how wonderful you are, Patsy.”

 

“If I’m wonderful at all, it’s only for loving you. You deserve better than stolen kisses and hidden rings, Delia, but I am so grateful that you take me for who I am.”

 

Delia knits her brow in determined consternation.

 

“I promise I won’t do anything to rain on Barbara’s parade.”

 

“And I promise, that _when_ I properly propose, it will be in a manner worthy of you.”

 

“What makes you think _you’ll_ be proposing, hmmmm, Patsy?”

 

Patsy shrugs, attempting to appear nonchalant.

 

“I think a lifetime with me is a much harder sell than a lifetime with you, that’s all.”

 

Delia pins her to the bed, thoroughly exasperated with attempting to argue their relative merits to one another.

 

“I would say yes to a ring of onion from you, Patience Mount. But can I make the most of our first proper night off in a month, before the proverbial glass slipper should disappear?”

 

“You know, maybe Sister Monica Joan had a hidden purpose with those rats,” Patsy muses, before losing that train of thought entirely.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thought it would be fun to tie things back to the first chapter of this collection.
> 
> *my very first pupcake fic! i was but a babe then*
> 
> thanks for welcoming me into the fold y'all. here's hoping there's some (ANY) good things coming our gals' way in s6.


	18. So Long, Farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> companion to 6 x 02.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw ur trying to smut it up and you just end up makin urself cry.

Fairytales never really gave Patsy a proper picture of happiness. She supposes “they lived happily ever after” is a bit more succinct than “they stood side by side at the vanity, washing their faces and basking in the mundane beauty of their life together,” but often, she thinks that the real magic does lie in the details. Not in slaying dragons or defeating evil kings, but holding hands under the table, whispering “I love you” before falling asleep. 

 

Tomorrow is another battle to fight, but tonight, Delia leans against her chest, allowing another hour of procrastination. 

 

“You’ve stopped wearing lip gloss,” Patsy whispers, by way of distraction. 

 

Delia doesn’t look up just yet. 

 

“I’ve found that the more plain I look, the less unwanted attention the doctors pay me.” She closes her eyes and inhales deeply before hoisting herself up on her elbows. 

 

“Why, do you miss it?” 

 

Delia winks as she asks the question, attempting to bring levity to the situation (assisting  in Patsy’s obvious desire to avoid further talk of her father). But Patsy is the picture of seriousness in her response. 

 

“I think you look splendid. I mean, you would look ravishing in a flour sack, but this look, it suits you. You look… capable.” 

 

She threads her fingers through Delia’s, bringing her palm up to kiss. 

 

“Strong.” 

 

Her lips graze the inside of Delia’s wrist, and she can feel the heartbeat beneath them grow in magnitude as worships the soft skin. 

 

A faint flush lights Delia’s cheek. 

 

“Better than rouge, don’t you think, Deels?”  

 

(Her lips are impossibly soft, yet insistent. Delia’s heart has somehow managed to travel all the way from her chest to her wrist, narrow limbs be damned.) 

 

“I do like a natural look,” Delia concedes, ever so slightly hoarse. 

 

Patsy hums, low and throaty (and Delia knows the cigarettes are bad, but when they make her sound like  _ this  _ how could she ever ask her to stop?), and gestures for Delia to sit in front of her on the bed. 

 

“Why don’t you tell me about your day? It seems I hardly get to see you anymore, much less hear about how your training is going.” 

 

Patsy tangles her fingers in Delia’s hair as  she talks, pulling slightly as she massages her scalp. 

 

“Unless, of course, you’re tired, then we can catch up tomorrow.” 

 

Delia leans into the touch, desperate and hungry.

 

“Tomorrow may never come, for all we know,” Delia sings, bittersweet. 

 

There are no surprises this time, no shock or confusion. Just a cold, clear knowledge of what will be. Must be. For the same reason that she loves her with all her heart, Delia knows that Patsy will leave to be with her father. And Patsy knows that Delia will let her go, gently, softly, lovingly. 

That’s the trouble of falling in love with a wonderful person. When push comes to shove, they will always make the noble choice, even if it shatters both hearts in the process. 

 

“Delia,” Patsy risks a quick kiss, “why don’t you tell me about these know-it-all doctors, hmm?” 

 

They learned long ago that silence is most suspicious of all, so Delia vents her frustrations at the London’s rampant sexism while Patsy works around buttons and drawstrings to leave her imprint on Delia’s skin. She manages to work in an occasional “Is that so?” or “that sounds ghastly!” as Delia's body rises to a fever pitch. 

 

It isn’t the storybook ending she'd always imagined, covertly fucking under cover of small talk. Once they had the flat, Patsy had dared allow herself to use the phrase “making love” in her imagination; dreamt of locking the doors and shuttering the windows and leaving nothing but a bedsheet to delineate where she began and Delia ended. 

 

Delia comes with a soft mutter of “to hell with the consequences,” and Patsy rushes to hold her close. 

 

“You deserve better, Delia,” she whispers, ostensibly speaking of workplace discrimination. 

 

Delia’s blue eyes turn to grey steel before she relaxes into a much needed sleep. 

 

“I’m quite happy with the life I’ve created and the choices I’ve made. I go after the things I want.” 

 

Patsy nods, swallowing down a lump in her throat.

 

“And for that I am eternally grateful.” 

  
  


_

 

Lipstick is always last to go on. 

 

She’d made that mistake in training- Delia’s self-confessed ineptitude with makeup wouldn’t cover Patsy’s clashing crimson staining her lips more than once. Even a country bumpkin from Wales ought know better than to pair  _ that _ shade with  _ her _ skin. 

 

(Loulla had  _ ever-so-helpfully _ slipped Delia an article on the ward detailing best practices for finding one’s signature colour. “I know it’s hard to play catch up, Delia, but you’ll be looking cosmopolitan before you know it,” she’d whispered earnestly as Patsy stood back, trying to hide a devilish grin.) 

 

Patsy smiles ruefully at the memory, of a day that now feels a lifetime away. She powders her face, applies mascara, buffs her nails, waiting for the last possible moment to apply her final line of defense. 

 

Delia doesn’t look at her when she says “I love you,” tosses her card in the valise to be read later. Many things have been hidden among her neatly folded clothes over the years; her mother’s mirror, her sister’s drawings, her Delia’s sweet smiling face that no longer remembered her own. 

 

It never hurts any less, to carry her heart outside her body in a clumsy old suitcase. 

 

It’s really only consideration for Delia’s career that keeps Patsy from throwing the whole mess onto the floor and crashing into bed with her. She settles for a tight grip on her waist, and a searing kiss. 

 

In a way, Fred’s interruption is a blessing. 

 

If they were to have privacy, she would never stop kissing Delia, never stop telling her how much she loves her, to make up for all the times she didn’t before. 

 

Then, she would never stop crying, and babies would be born unattended, and her father would die before she ever boarded the train. 

 

So really, it’s for the best that Fred barges in and Delia leaps away, hand caressing the red print of Patsy’s fingers on her forearm. 

 

_

In all the places she has left before, Patsy has never had any intention of returning. Liberation from the camp was a blessing she thought would never come, a nightmare she only revisits under psychological duress. School was a chance to make something of herself beyond money, or status, or tragedy. She had written letters, and made phone calls, and sent parcels for the important anniversaries, but never once did Patsy visit her father after moving to London. 

 

Patsy knows from leaving, but she’s a stranger to coming back. 

 

The only thing that remotely helps her keep it together, from the cab ride to the train station, is the knowledge that Delia is in the best possible hands. She will be loved and cared for, even if Patsy cannot hold her close, or make her tea, or iron her uniform. And Patsy, well, she was plenty self-sufficient before Delia came into her life anyhow. 

 

Today, air pollution is a blessing, as the smog from the train stings her eyes and marries with her (now freely-flowing) tears. 

  
That’s the good thing about lipstick. Love is the only thing it can’t weather. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOW ARE WE ALL COPING? talk to me, bbs <3 
> 
> ps this is the tune Delia's singing Nat King Cole is my everything if this doesn't make u wanna have tearful sex i don't know what will https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rPf0DnmOw3E


	19. A Hundred Million Miracles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Busby visits during Patsy's absence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all know i have a weird love for mama b. CAN'T STOP WONT STOP.

Easter at Nonnatus House has become an unintended tradition, it seems. 

 

Delia always has an excuse for not coming home- first it was Paris, then this new training course. Next will likely be a self-induced broken ankle if Enid doesn’t relent. So, she compromises (it’s always compromise with Delia). Better London in Spring than at Christmas time, anyhow. 

 

Steffan always has an excuse for staying home. He claims that there are just too many last minute alterations before Easter, but Maundy Thursday in Pembroke is hardly haute couture. Poor thing, he just hates crowds but won’t stand to admit it. Men will jump through all sorts of hoops to protect their pride. Lucky for him, she’s learned not to press. Besides, it’s nice to leave the nest every now and then. He certainly appreciates her return. 

 

Enid arrives promptly for luncheon on Friday, despite the somewhat vexing journey from Blod’s flat. (No matter how many times she does it, riding that filthy bus never gets any easier. It’s a wonder she hasn’t contracted asthma from these biannual visits). A spritely young nun greets her at the door. 

 

“I’m Delia’s mam, here to join her for lunch?” 

 

Enid knows she sometimes comes across as a bit intimidating, but the sister is undeterred, smiling sunnily as she guides her to the dining room. 

 

“Of course, you’re just in time!” 

 

Delia at least looks happy to see her this time. Enid is a bit shocked at the force of the hug, even more so by the unshed tears that glimmer in Delia’s eyes. She’s a bit more shocked (though not altogether disheartened) at the absence of Delia’s friend from the table. 

 

(She knows her name good and well, but these adjustments do take time, even in the cognitive realm. And she’s at least moved on from referring to her solely as “that woman.”) 

 

“Thank you for having me, cariad. Sisters,” She nods to the women of the cloth. 

 

“We are family here at Nonnatus, and we are honoured to have you join us. Nurse Busby has been a tremendous asset to us all this past year.”  Sister Julienne’s smile is warm and kind, and for the thousandth time, Enid is grateful that there is some good influence in her daughter’s life, even if it cannot be herself. 

 

Delia blushes and looks down at her plate, while Enid nods in pride. 

 

The rest of the meal is rather mundane; the nurses discuss their morning rounds and Monica Joan attempts to secure the largest piece of cake before anyone else notices. Enid primarily sits back and observes, though she does appreciate the polite attempts to include her in the discussion. It’s nice, to see her Delia looking like she properly belongs here. She’s obviously not just a tagalong of Patsy, but a member of the community in her own right. 

 

Enid’s presence must have caused some sort of a delay, for Delia looks at her watch with a start as they clear their plates. 

 

“Oh goodness, I have to go or I’ll be late for surgery. I’m so sorry, Mam- we’re still on for tea tomorrow, yes?” 

 

Enid can’t help but roll her eyes to mask her hurt, but she quickly acquiesces to Delia’s plea. 

 

(She learned long ago that with Delia, compromise is much preferable to nothing at all).

 

“Of course. Heaven knows I don’t want you earning demerits on my account.” 

 

Delia gives her another quick squeeze before scurrying off. Enid can’t deny the plain fact that her daughter is a grown woman, but in this moment, she looks like the girl with rumpled socks and skinned knees, running in late for supper. 

 

“I suppose I ought to track down my bus,” she muses at the void in front of her. 

 

“Nonsense,” a strong Northern accent declares, “I’m more than happy to drive you myself.” 

 

Enid takes in the formidable presence of Nurse Crane (whom Delia has recently begun referring to as “Phyllis” in her letters), before nodding trepidatiously. 

 

“I would hate to take up so much of your time, not to mention the petrol.” 

 

But she can tell that Phyllis is not one for taking “No” for an answer. 

 

“Well I just so happen to have the afternoon off, and I’d rather like to take care of some business on the other side of town.” 

 

(It’s a bald-faced lie and they both know it, but the thought of a return trip on public transport quells any remaining protest.) 

 

Phyllis leads her out to the motorcar, chivalrously opening the passenger door. She starts the engine efficiently, and promptly rolls into a one-sided conversation. 

 

“You’ve raised a magnificent daughter, Mrs. Busby. We all enjoy her company tremendously, and she’s proven quite the student under my tutorship. Of course, we all miss Nurse Mount terribly, but it’s been a real pleasure getting to know Delia better.” 

Enid nods, caught on the fact that Delia barely glossed over what appears to be a significant absence in her life. There’s something about Nurse Crane’s inflection that leads Enid to believe that she knows just how  _ terribly  _ her daughter misses Nurse Mount. 

 

(Call it a mother’s intuition.) 

 

“Is she coping alright? Delia, I mean. She told me that  _ Patsy  _ had gone to Hong Kong, but nothing more.” 

 

She can’t keep the venom out of her voice- the thought of that redhead, smirking across the table from her, makes her blood boil. 

 

Phyllis raises an eyebrow, keeping her focus firmly on the road ahead. 

 

“She’s doing as well as can be expected, but your Delia is a fighter. A fact to which I’m certain you are privy.” 

 

There’s a heavy pause between them, before Phyllis continues, cautiously. 

 

“Your daughter and Nurse Mount care for each other very deeply. And I find that each exerts an undeniably positive influence on the other. We look out for our own at Nonnatus House, and Delia is absolutely one of our own.” 

 

She nods sharply, as if to say “that is that.” 

 

Enid swallows down the lump in her throat, in turns both mortified at her daughter’s apparent indiscretion and comforted by the maternal concern from the older nurse in her own absence. 

 

She exhales sharply before responding. 

 

“I don’t suppose Nurse Mount ever influences her to attend a church service?” 

 

Phyllis’s laugh is simultaneously sharp glass and warm honey. Enid can’t help but grin a bit, too. 

_

 

Delia looks visibly nervous at tea. Like the little girl who got caught sneaking lumps of sugar. Punishing a child was easier- the knowledge that she was setting her on the path of righteousness always managed to allay the pain of seeing Delia’s tears. But now, she must live with her daughter’s choices, or risk losing her altogether.  _ Patsy  _ has made it very clear that compromise will be less and less tolerated in the future. 

 

But Patsy is not here today, and Delia looks scared of her own mam. 

 

“Cariad, how did your surgery go?” 

 

Delia visibly brightens at the interest in her studies. 

 

“It was wonderful- just a standard caesarian section, but it’s always exciting to bring a baby into the world.” 

 

Enid nods, smiling at the memory of Delia’s delivery. 

 

“Your dad must have knocked on every door in town to break the news when you came along. I’ve never seen the man so proud- or friendly, for that matter.” 

 

Delia laughs at the image of her shy father shouting in the streets. 

 

Enid squints, trying to read Delia’s mind, if only for a moment, before taking this risk. 

 

“You might not remember very well, but your dad was conscripted when you were a toddler. It was the longest year of my life, having him away from home. I thought I’d never stop crying when he left, but I managed to keep it together for your sake.” 

 

She pauses to dab at the corner of an eye with her napkin. (Uncouth, but then again, so is crying in public.) 

 

“And then when he came back, I thought I’d never stop crying tears of sheer joy.” 

 

Delia smiles thinly at the vague memory of the event. 

 

Enid reaches for her hand across the table, steeling herself for a great humbling. 

 

“It must be very difficult for you right now, cariad. If you want to talk… about Patsy, I’m here.” 

 

Delia is mute for a moment, stunned with shock. She shakes off the stupor and begins to fill in the blanks for her mother. 

 

“She went to care for her father. He’s ill, terminally, and he’s the only family she has left. It was the right thing to do, the brave thing to do.” 

 

Enid nods, a bit uncomfortable with the obvious (to her) adoration in her daughter’s voice, but pushing through.

 

“Family is the most important thing.” 

 

“It’s just. I hate how hard this is on her. After losing her mother and sister during the war, now, to watch another person close to her die, it just seems unfair.” She looks down at her lap meekly before whispering, “and I hate that I can’t be with her through it all.” 

 

Enid bites down on the urge to chastise Delia for wearing her heart so plainly on her sleeve, and instead thinks back to Phyllis’s words about her daughter’s relationship. 

 

“Your Patsy is an excellent caregiver, Delia. She never once left your side when you were in hospital. Her father could not be in better hands.” 

 

A hint of anger flashes across Delia’s face at the mention of her convalescence. 

 

“You never mentioned that, mam.” 

 

Enid reddens in shame. 

 

“I thought I was protecting you, cariad. It would seem that even mothers make mistakes, on occasion.” 

 

Delia bites her lip to keep tears at bay, swirling her spoon around in her now-cold tea. 

 

“Delia, I hope you’ll at least think about coming home for Christmas this year.” 

 

Delia shrugs noncommittally, muttering “I can’t guarantee that I’ll be able to get the time off.” 

 

Some things never change. 

 

“Right. Well, if you can manage, your father and I would love to have you and Patsy.” 

 

Delia’s spoon clatters loudly against the saucer. 

 

“There’s no need to make a scene, now. As a mother, I can’t bear the notion of anyone spending Christmas without being surrounded by family. So perhaps, an informal adoption may be in order.” 

 

Delia smirks. 

 

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to personally extend this invitation to Pats, would you?” 

 

“Don’t push your luck, Delia, or I will be forced to change my mind.” 

 

Delia rolls her eyes (like mother, like daughter) as she pushes her chair away from the table. 

 

“I’m very glad you came to visit, mam. I missed you.” 

 

“Well, it would seem that the only way I can guarantee you spend any time in church is to take you to worship myself.”

 

“I’ll have you know that Patsy often drags me to services with the sisters.” 

 

She  _ would. _

  
“Whatever gets you through the door.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> may you all be blessed by your own personal Phyllis Crane Lesbian Godmothers. 
> 
> stay strong, love hard, be kind <3


	20. In My Own Little Corner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patsy's return home doesn't go exactly according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because those teal pajamas gave me a mess of feelings.

Phyllis had tried. 

 

Honestly. 

 

When Nurse Mount’s letter arrived informing Nurse Busby (and ostensibly, the rest of Nonnatus House) of her scheduled arrival by train, Phyllis had immediately suggested that they both drive to pick her up. 

 

“She might need a bit of help with her belongings, and goodness knows you young lot are better porters than I!” 

 

Who could argue with that logic?  

 

She and Nurse Busby (no, Delia now, they’d crossed the bridge of formality a while past) had become a united front over the past few months. Between Nurse Gilbert’s wedding fever and Nurse Franklin’s new beau, they’d spent many an evening playing cards at Nonnatus, and trying to convince Sister Monica Joan to relinquish control of the television every once in awhile. Nurse Dyer occasionally joins them, but if she’s not on call, she makes herself scarce, returning from whence she came. 

 

Anyhow, Phyllis  _ had  _ arranged things quite suitably. She and Sister Julienne had agreed that it would be kindest to simply move Nurse Mount into Delia’s room upon her return, seeing as Nurse Dyer had had a rocky enough transition as is. Delia’s a good sport like that- she won’t complain about sharing. 

 

Truth be told, she gets a little misty-eyed at the whole prospect. It reminds her of the handsome lad she never did get to welcome home with open arms, the joyful reunions she’s missed out on, for circumstance and sacrifice. But just because she’s embraced a life of practicality doesn’t mean she can’t pull for two kids to find their happy ending after all. 

 

She’s interrupted from her waxing poetic by Sister Winifred’s chipper voice over the breakfast table. 

 

“-and since Mrs. Thompson is due any moment, and Nurse Busby still hasn’t gotten back from the maternity home, I thought I could take the car and pick up Nurse Mount from the station!” 

 

She beams, looking from Phyllis to Sister Julienne in anticipation. 

 

_ Hell’s teeth.  _

 

Of course her most complicated patient chooses today for baby’s arrival. She is a bit worried about Delia, however, she was only meant to be on second shift last night, and should have returned by midnight, at the latest.  She’ll have to pop back in at lunch to make sure she’s holding up alright. 

 

Sister Julienne looks at her inquisitively. Right- she should probably respond about the use of her car. 

 

“I suppose I can cycle just this once, but do let Nurse Mount know of the sacrifice I’m making on her behalf.” 

 

Sister Winifred laughs, clapping her hands together in glee. Heaven help the the denizens of London’s streets today. 

 

It is difficult to be upset with the Sister’s insistent obliviousness. It’s no wonder she loved teaching- the woman’s joy is childlike, and bordering on infectious. Phyllis can only hope that Nurse Mount isn’t too terribly disappointed. 

_

 

Patsy’s eyes dart quickly as she steps off the platform and into the sea of people at Waterloo Station. She’s dismayed when her eyes don’t immediately connect with Delia’s- they’ve always had a knack for finding one another in a crowd, from those first furtive glances in crowded lecture halls, to the shared looks of disgust on sweaty dance floors. It doesn’t take long for her to realize that it isn’t that she’s lost her ability to find Delia, she simply isn’t there to be found. 

 

In her distraction, she’s very nearly knocked to the ground by an enthusiastic hug. 

 

“Nurse Mount! What a blessing to have you back with us. Oh, we’ve all missed you terribly, but I can’t wait to hear about your travels. And you’ll just won’t believe about Nurse Crane taking over as Akelah. Oh, there’s so much to catch up on! Did Delia tell you we’ve hired a new midwife?” 

 

Patsy exhales shakily, gathering her composure as Sister Winifred continues to ramble. 

 

“... and I guess the most important news at the moment is that I’ve learned to drive! Your chariot awaits, Nurse Mount!” 

 

Patsy trudges numbly behind Sister Winifred, exhaustion setting in her bones, beside the heavy ache of unmet expectations. 

 

She puts on a brave front as they disembark, but most of her emotional energy ends up spent clutching at the door handle- it would seem that Sister Winifred still hasn’t managed the art of smooth shifting. Or signaling, for that matter. 

 

She is a bit out of practice in the prayer department- perhaps this is Sister Julienne’s wry attempt to nurture her back into the customs of Nonnatus. 

“Was your passage terribly turbulent? Nurse Gilbert had an awful time with seasickness on our voyage to South Africa. Does that affect you?” 

 

Patsy responds quickly, if only to get Sister Winifred’s focus from her face back to the road. (Who would think that a nun would inspire so much vitriol in the hearts of other motorists?) 

 

“I’m told I have an iron stomach, all things considered. Though it was a rather rough stint when I ran out of cigarettes.” 

 

Finally, (and she will never skip out on another trip to the chapel so long as she lives) they’re returned to Nonnatus. 

 

A flustered Nurse Crane is fiddling with the bicycle rack as they approach the stoop. 

 

“Oh, these blasted things will be the death of me…. Nurse Mount! What auspicious timing I have. Let me help you with your things.” 

 

She happily abandons the bike (which clatters noisily against the others) to carry a suitcase. 

 

Patsy nods in gratitude, but anxiety at a distinct absence of Delia is beginning to wear on her. 

 

Fortunately, Phyllis implores Sister Winifred to “properly park the motorcar, please,” and pulls Patsy aside at the foot of the stairs. 

 

“Your Delia’s had a bit of a rough night at the Maternity Home, and she’s been sleeping the past few hours. I would imagine you want a bit of a rest yourself. You’ll be bunking with her now, seeing as Nurse Dyer’s taken your old spot. Now,” she checks her watch, tabulating in her head, “I should be able to keep the others off your back until dinnertime, which gives you two hours and twenty minutes.” 

 

Patsy’s eyes widen in shock and gratitude and unshed tears from an incredibly difficult nine months. 

 

Nurse Crane just looks a bit amused. 

 

“Go on, kid! Time’s a-wasting.” 

 

Patsy nods, shaking Nurse Crane’s hand vigorously. 

 

“Thank you.” 

_ 

 

Patsy takes a moment to inhale the scent of Delia as she steps into the bedroom. Perfume and soap and crisp, clean linen. She leans against the doorframe, listening to the brunette sleep. Delia’s always been able to fall asleep at the drop of a hat, no matter how exciting the night, or what the hour. Patsy’s spent many nights beside her, entraining her own breath to Delia’s, until the facsimile of relaxation brought her to sleep as well. 

 

“Deels?” 

 

Her voice is barely a whisper, but as she approaches the bed, Delia turns and smiles. 

 

“Pats? Am I dreaming right now?” 

 

Patsy can’t really believe it’s happening, herself, and brushes the back of her hand along Delia’s cheek to conform her corporeality.  

 

“I would hope that I’d look a bit more put together in your dreams, darling.” 

 

Delia grins, still sleepy-eyed but growing more alert by the second. 

 

“You look beautiful.” 

 

They smile at each other in silence for a moment, drinking in every detail. Patsy quirks an eyebrow at the realization of where she’d seen Delia’s teal cotton ensemble before. 

 

“I daresay those pyjamas look better on you than on me.” 

 

Delia blushes. 

 

“They helped me to feel close to you.” 

 

And just like that, the dam breaks, and they’re both snotty, crying messes, clinging tightly to one another. 

 

“I’m so glad you’re back. You are the bravest, most wonderful, incredible person in the world, Pats.” 

 

She laughs between sniffles, leaving black streaks of mascara upon Delia’s shoulder. 

 

“Hardly. But I do love you terribly, Delia Busby. I hope you didn’t forget that.” 

 

Delia kisses her (runny noses be damned), and proffers a handkerchief. 

 

“Thank the lord, my days of forgetting are behind me.” She smiles, watery, hopeful, shy. 

“And besides, what’s a few months’ wait when we’ve got forever?” 

 

Patsy beams, cupping Delia’s face in her hands and kissing her soundly. 

 

(It’s good to know that these sorts of things don’t get rusty when they’ve been out of practice.) 

 

“It’s never any less thrilling to hear you say that.” 

 

She looks around the small room, smirking at the two twin beds wedged together to permit room for a the wardrobe. 

 

“So… roommates, huh? Do I owe Nurse Crane my firstborn?” 

 

Delia giggles, her heart soaring with every reminder of her beautiful, witty, charming, saucy Patsy. 

 

“I think relieving her of Akelah duties will be thanks enough.”

 

“I even missed those little scamps, would you believe it?” 

 

Delia brings Patsy’s arm across her waist, threading their fingers together. 

 

“Of course you did. They’re just a much a part of your life here as any of the rest of us. Welcome home, Pats.” 

 

Delia briefly turns to kiss her forehead, before insistently reclaiming her rightful spot as little spoon. 

 

Patsy nestles her face into the hollow Delia’s neck, inhaling the scent of shampoo and cold cream and the faintest hint of sweat. It’s only mid-afternoon, but as autumn approaches winter, the sun sets ever deceptively earlier. Delia’s body heat eclipses November’s chill, warming Patsy from the inside out. They have so much talking to do, so much to catch up on, but her leaden eyes simply won’t allow it.

 

For the first time in months, Patsy rests. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope this wasn't too terribly anticlimactic! sometimes u just gotta spoon ur boo and save the *passion* for later <3 <3 <3


	21. We Kiss in A Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Patsy and Delia's first night back together after the finale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the prompter asked for smut, and I ended up with a Patience Mount Character Study in which she incidentally has sex, but there ya go.

Patsy is well aware of the way nine months can change a person. How a mother can grow a fully formed person in her womb over the course of forty weeks. How a child can count the days since she lost her own mother, etching notches in bamboo to remind herself that time moves on, even if people do not. 

 

She’s well aware, too, of the aphorisms around leaving a loved one behind. The dangers of idealization and boredom to young lovers, the ever-looming threat of a Dear John letter. 

 

(Would it be Dear Jill in this case? It would seem popular culture had more sympathy with jilted men than women.) 

 

It has, as a matter of fact, occurred to her to write Delia. 

 

There have been so many nights when she has put pen to paper, only to be interrupted by her father’s plaintive cries, or been stymied by an inability to express just how very much she misses Delia. 

 

(Delia deserves poems and songs and great works of art. All she can muster is  _ I Love You,  _ but the words look too frail to make it across the sea. For such a journey, they ought to bring more than a faint echo of her own voice.) 

On more than one occasion, thoughts of Delia have brought her such needed peace that she’d fallen asleep at her desk, waking to ink-smudged cheeks and a reality woefully different from her dreams. 

 

She’s felt herself returned to survival mode, the endless mantra of  _ one day, then the next, then the next, until it’s done,  _ a constant prayer. So it had been in the camp, and continued through the lonesome years of school. So it had been through the weeks when she didn’t know if Delia would ever love her again, much less remember her. She thinks, sometimes, that perhaps she’d be better named  _ Endurance.  _ Or perhaps,  _ Steadfastness.  _

 

(Would Delia call her “Endy?” or “Steads?”)

 

Being in Hong Kong feels like an out-of-body experience. She’s existed here before, but wouldn’t say  _ lived _ , if pressed. A few uncomfortable weeks in the midst of schooling and training do not a life make. Her father’s house is big and beautiful and empty, empty, empty. 

 

This is, perhaps, the most normal rite of passage she has yet to undertake. Caring for a parent in their old age, letting them rest in the knowledge that their child will manage without them, will carry on their legacy adequately. Seeing her father rigid, confused, locked in a world she cannot fully enter is not quite as disarming as she expected it to be. There were hints, looking back. The shakiness of his hands after the war, his uneven gait when he turned away after their last goodbye. It feels fitting, somehow, that this man she buried in her heart years ago should look as miserable as they’ve both felt. 

 

She hated him after the camp. Hated him for putting them in Singapore in the first place, hated him for not being there to do something, anything for her mother and sister. Hated him for having gotten to live so many more years of life with so much more happiness than the rest of them. 

 

Her father was the same age when he met her mother as she was when she died. 

 

Patsy used to dream of killing him, and giving those extra years to her mother and sister, telling them, “ _ It’s all right now, you see, I made it even _ .” 

 

While she emerged from the war with an angry ironclad exterior, her father shrunk into himself. His gregarious laugh was never quite as full, his eyes never quite as sparkling as before. There were  fleeting moments where the threat of closeness loomed over them, but his vulnerability disgusted her, and she found excuses to turn away, every time. 

 

She could have done better by him. Should have. 

 

“ _ You can’t change your past,”  _ Delia had told her, “ _ but you can reconcile it.”  _

_ _ _

 

Patsy’s always been a better nurse than daughter. Never once failed to meet an expectation of cleanliness, or efficiency, or knowledgeability. Her father’s caregiver as elated to have an assistant, especially one as capable of herself. She dissociates from the fact that this body is her father’s, her own flesh and blood, as she takes blood pressures and administers baths and feeds the poor thing soup when he can no longer chew and swallow solids. And in the quiet, heavy minutes between these distractions, she talks to him. 

 

She tells him about Poplar, about the Cubs and the nuns and all the babies she has welcomed into the world. She tells him about her found family, of Trixie’s constant friendship and Barbara’s unfailing kindness. As his eyes close in fitful rest, she tells him about Delia. She doesn’t describe her as anything other than a friend, but from the get-go, Patsy has never been able to keep the adoration from her voice whenever Delia Busby’s name graced her lips. 

 

“...I can’t imagine my life without her,” Patsy whispers, holding her father’s hand as his breathing deepens, secretions beginning to labor his respirations.  

 

_

 

Death, like birth, is rarely easy or quick. 

 

Her father’s delirium is not fever-induced, but a byproduct of the masses that have been tangling up his brain for years and years. 

 

The last word he says is her mother’s name. 

 

Patsy will never quite be sure if he confused her for his wife, or if he saw her as he began the journey out of this world. 

 

It’s two days until his heart finally stops, his lungs finally give up their losing battle. She doesn’t sleep, save for unwilling lapses at his bedside. 

 

The funeral is short and somber, and she shakes the hands of men she’s never met who tell stories of a man she never knew. 

 

Somehow, but for the grace of god (and Delia Busby, always and forever Delia Busby), she manages to procure passage home. 

 

(For this never was and never shall be her home. She owns the house now, apparently. She avoids thinking about it.) 

 

On board the ship, she sleeps for two days straight. And then wakes with a start, cursing herself. 

 

Well, no use fretting over things that can’t be changed. And a furious Delia is more welcome than anyone else in the world. 

 

For all that she sleeps, she’s still bone tired when they reach land. As the train nears London, a shimmer of nervousness creeps beneath the exhaustion. Her aching fingers twitch around the handle of her suitcase. 

 

When she had allowed herself time to daydream about seeing Delia again, Patsy had imagined changing into her best dress at the station, reapplying her lipstick and setting her hair just so and making sure that she looked nothing short of stunning. 

 

But the homesickness that’s taken up residence in her chest burns with the city’s smog, and propels her forward, crooked cuffs and plimsolls be damned. 

 

She knows, objectively that the cold hurts her bare ankles, the snow stings on her arms, but the pain doesn’t register. 

 

Because when she sees Delia, forlorn shock and all, a warmth spreads through her that evaporates a chill not even Hong Kong’s brutal summer could touch.

 

Delia’s touch is firm as she pulls Patsy into a darkened alley. Hurt and frustration flicker across her face, but even behind Delia’s anger, Patsy knows that she is loved. That she is home. 

 

Her words aren’t very good- they so rarely are, but Patsy has always been a woman of action. 

 

It’s impulsive, and more than a little foolhardy, but Delia against her, heartbeats pounding in hemiola as they share a breath is resurrection. 

 

(Eat your heart out, Lazarus.) 

 

Delia grabs her valise, insistent, (Patsy knows better by now than to argue that she, being taller, ought to bear the brunt of physical labor. One can only stand to watch so many passive-aggressive feats of strength.) but seeing the spectacle before them, Patsy pulls her aside. 

 

“Deels, I’m really not up for a party right now.” 

 

Delia starts to explain about Barbara and Tom and goes off on a bit of a tangent about this bloke who just kept walking beside her like they were a couple and it’s a damn good thing she showed up or she might have had to bail Delia out of jail for assault and Patsy basks in the blessed sound of that accent before restating her case. 

 

“I think I’d rather celebrate with Barbara after her honeymoon than show up in this state. And everyone else will be perfectly happy to see me in the morning.” 

 

Delia takes a good, long, look at her face, and Patsy tries not to flinch under the scrutiny. She knows she looks like hell (on one of Satan’s bad hair days), and she feels Delia’s sympathy, a soothing balm on her dry, rough skin. 

 

“Very well, then. I suppose I can put you to bed then, Nurse Mount.” 

_

 

As it would happen, Phyllis has also elected to leave the festivities early, apparently exhausted by her maid of honor duties. 

 

“You know, I thought for a moment I might be hallucinating, but I didn’t have the slightest bit of Champagne! Nurse Mount, it’s good to have you home. A cup of tea?” 

 

Patsy nods her silent thanks as Delia walks past them into the kitchen to prepare a sandwich. 

 

“I know you haven’t eaten in hours, if not days. No ifs, ands, or buts,” she admonishes, slathering tuna salad on bread. 

 

Phyllis looks between them, sipping her tea thoughtfully. 

 

“Delia, I had expected that since Barbara is leaving, I might convince you to trade rooms with you that I might have a bit of privacy in my old age. Would you be amenable to that solution, at least temporarily? I don’t expect Nurse Dyer would want to be thrown out in the middle of the night.” 

 

Delia stammers out “yes, that would be lovely,” as she hands Patsy her plate, the porcelain clattering against the table. 

 

Patsy realizes that in her haste to get back to Delia, she also neglected to find out whether her job was still available to her. Although Barbara’s new life as a clergy spouse and Shelagh’s new baby may make room that would not otherwise be present. 

 

Omnisciently, Sister Julienne walks past them en route to compline. She shakes her head reassuringly when she catches Patsy’s eyes searching warily for Sister Ursula. 

 

“Rest easy, Nurse Mount, I have resumed my head sister position. You have no enemies here. Although we might have perhaps appreciated a bit of word about your return, you are always welcome at Nonnatus. And your arrival would appear most auspicious given all the changes to our family here.” 

 

“Thank you sister. I know I vacated my position when I left for Hong Kong, but I’m happy to assist in any capacity you see fit for the time being.” 

 

Sister Julienne grasps her hands warmly, beatific smile gracing her face. 

 

“And we may discuss all of that in the morning. For now, I think a good night’s rest is in order for you. Have you and Nurse Crane and Nurse Busby worked out a suitable arrangement?” 

 

Phyllis, brick that she is, jumps in without missing a beat. 

 

“I think it’s better that the younger nurses bunk together, don’t you? I think I’ve earned a bit more personal space, if that’s quite all right by you.” 

 

Julienne nods in agreement before continuing on her way to services. 

 

As Patsy clears her plate, Phyllis stands, stretching. 

 

“I must say, with Barbara’s snoring I’ve gotten in the habit of using earplugs. I don’t know that I could fall asleep without them.” 

 

She gives Delia a pointed look before walking up stairs, and presumably moving her things from one room to the other. 

 

Patsy raises her eyebrows at the exchange but Delia merely clears her plate and whispers, “I’ll explain later.” 

_

 

It feels odd, to be with Delia in a room that isn’t “theirs.” The linens are clean, the closets bare (Phyllis is a woman of few possessions), but still Patsy feels a bit like an interloper. 

 

“Pats? Are you there, or have you fallen asleep standing up?” 

 

She shakes herself from her thoughts at the sound of Delia’s gentle ribbing. 

 

“I’m sorry. It’s just… I wish that we could be some place of our own right now.” 

 

Delia sighs wistfully at the thought, but moves closer. 

 

“I’m inclined to believe we make any place we happen to be into our own.” 

 

Patsy smiles. 

 

It’s comforting to smile at Delia. 

 

Like putting on one’s coziest pair of pyjamas, or having the first sip of a hot coffee. It’s exciting and familiar and  _ home.  _

 

“If I didn’t already love you with all my heart your way with words would certainly sway me.” 

 

“I’ve become a bit of a poetry fanatic in your absence.” 

 

Patsy arches a brow. 

 

“I suppose it suits your arthouse cinema tastes, doesn’t it?” 

 

A tense silence falls between them, too many things to be said and yet not enough. 

 

“I’m no good with apologies, Delia- I’m afraid if I told you I’m sorry as many times as I’ve felt it you’d grow sick of me.” 

  
  


Swallowing down the lump in her throat, she gently kisses Delia’s cheek. 

 

“I’m sorry.” 

 

Her lips graze across Delia’s soft skin until she’s whispering in her ear, her hot breath and raspy voice making Delia shiver.

 

“Let me show you how sorry I am, Delia. Please.” 

 

This time, it’s Delia that pulls her in. Without the threat of clear glass and streetlights, the kiss intensifies. Patsy used to dream of nothing more than kissing Delia, for hours. Tasting her, feeling her, memorizing every cell of her face with her lips. 

 

But in the flesh, kissing is never enough. Her hands move quicker than her mind can, unzipping Delia from her dress, carefully unpinning the intricate plaits along the crown of her head. Patsy’s fingers tangle in Delia’s silky tresses, and she tugs slightly, toes curling at the the sound of Delia’s whimper. 

 

She could cry at how  _ good  _ it feels to know she can still elicit this reaction. Delia still wants her. With every second, want grows closer to need. 

 

As the nuns bow in prayer, Patsy kneels before Delia, gently pushing the shorter woman to lie flat on her back. 

 

She tries to take things slow, to cherish every precious, blessed second they have. Kisses down Delia’s neck and over her flushed chest. Bites softly into her shoulder and rakes painted nails along the inside of her thighs. She breathes in Delia’s essence, choking back a sob of relief before devoting herself to worship. 

 

She feels Delia move against her mouth, feels that connection between them that was always stronger than any word growing. 

 

Delia, voracious consumer of any and all books available to her, had tried to explain mysticism to Patsy once, at the beginning of their friendship. Doubter that she was, it hadn’t connected in the slightest to her. 

 

But after she touched Delia for the first time, it all made sense. 

 

In darkness, a spark. 

 

Truth, illuminated. 

 

Two minds, become one. 

 

For a moment, the act of pleasuring Delia becomes a meditation, an act of penance. 

But Delia requires more than rote motions and platitudes. 

 

She reaches down to hoist Patsy up by her collar, hastily unbuttoning her blouse and tossing it aside. 

 

Delia holds the redhead to her chest as she grabs her hand and guides it back down, urging Patsy deeper. 

 

“I need you with me, Pats.” 

 

Her ragged breaths punctuate the plea. 

 

“Always. Always with you, anywhere, everywhere, until the day I die.” 

 

She feels Delia clench around her, her head turned into the pillow, biting down a muffled scream. 

 

Patsy withdraws her hand slowly, holding Delia as she catches her breath. 

 

“What if I die first?” 

 

Sleep edges at Delia’s voice, her release overtaking her. 

 

Patsy rolls her eyes, grinning at Delia’s insistence at missing the point. 

 

“I suppose you’ll just have to haunt me, won’t you?” 

 

“Hmmm, sounds nice.” 

 

Patsy draws the covers over them both, nodding her assent into Delia’s slowly rising and falling chest. 

 

“You’d be a lovely ghost, Deels.” 

 

“Thanks, Pats. That’s very sweet of you.” 

 

In a few moments, Patsy will fold their clothes, and put a sleeping Delia into her nightgown. She will rumple the sheets of “her” bed, and ensure that they’re not so entangled she can’t make a quick exit if need be. 

  
Now, she listens to her love’s easy breathing, and writes poems on her skin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't promise timeliness, but prompts are always welcome on tumblr @blueblue-baby 
> 
> (Also, headcanon Delia as loving Elizabeth Bishop. Also I thought about a lot of songs while writing this so props to those folks i guess y'all like Anais Mitchell and Rose Cousins???)


	22. So Far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone requested i follow up with Christmas in Wales that I teased in Mrs. Busby's Patsy-less appearance. 
> 
> IT KIND OF GOT AWAY FROM ME.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no. 1 Mrs. Busby stan 4 lyfe

 

“I didn’t think you were one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Pats.” 

 

“I don’t think your Mother would appreciate being called a horse.” 

 

Delia rolls her eyes, growing increasingly frustrated with what she thought would be a straightforward request. 

 

“Stop deflecting. And give me one good reason why you don’t want to go.” 

 

“Work.” 

 

“Phyllis already offered to cover your shifts in exchange for you reciprocating the favor when she goes on holiday to Majorca.” 

 

Of course Delia’s done her research. 

 

Patsy blows her fringe away from her forehead, looking skyward in an effort to avoid Delia’s compassionately intense stare. 

 

“I’m scared, alright? I’m scared of your mother, I’m scared I’ll do something to give us away and ruin things for you, I’m scared that I’ll fall completely apart at any moment.” 

 

Delia places a hand on her knee, anchoring her. 

 

“Pats, I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I  _ intend  _ to spend the rest of my life with you. But I don’t want to have to choose between you and my family, especially when there’s no need to.” 

 

Patsy sets her lips in determination. 

 

(Delia never ceases to be amazed at how they can transform from pillowy softness to impenetrable steel in the blink of an eye.) 

 

“We return on boxing day.” 

 

“I’ll exchange the tickets right now, if that’s what it takes.” 

 

Patsy sighs heavily, flopping down on the bed in resignation. 

 

“I reckon you’ve got yourself a deal, Busby.” 

_

 

Pembrokeshire is lovely, even when it  _ is  _ raining. 

 

The wet is less chilly than London, the mist cleaner. 

 

She really should have brought more sensible shoes, though. 

 

Patsy inelegantly jerks her heel out of the ground as they walk to the cottage. 

 

Mr. Busby had driven them from the train station, and insisted on carrying their suitcases, but traversing the drive was a risk too far in this state- if Mrs. Busby misses her carol service because the motorcar is stuck in the mud, there will be hell to pay. 

 

Mrs. Busby rushes them inside, warning that “the cold will get in” if they don’t quickly shut the door behind them. 

 

She summarily scoops Delia into a tight embrace, leaving her husband to settle the bags as he sees fit. 

 

“Oh, cariad, it’s so good to have you home. I don’t think I’ll needing any Christmas gifts this year!” 

 

She eventually releases her daughter, and turns to Patsy, an unfamiliar warmth in her eyes. 

 

“It’s very nice to have you here, Patsy. It’s about time Delia brought a bit of London to us instead of the other way around.” 

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Busby,” Patsy chokes out, suspicious that this is all in fact a trap, or intervention, or some sort of perverse lucid dream. 

 

Delia gives her a quizzical look before benevolently intervening. 

 

“I’m afraid we’re a bit knackered from the trip, mam, do you mind if we have a lie down before dinner?” 

 

“Oh, goodness no, of course not,” Mrs. Busby insists, ever the gracious hostess. 

 

“I’ve set up a cot in your room, Delia.”  She turns to Patsy. “Unfortunately we haven’t a guest room, but I assumed you’d prefer that to the settee.” 

 

“I can manage with a cot, just fine, Mrs. Busby. Thank you kindly.” 

 

Delia wastes no time in sequestering them away in her childhood bedroom. 

 

Patsy would like to take a moment to observe Delia in her formative space, to peruse the books and keepsakes and knicknacks that shaped the most wonderful woman she’s ever known. 

 

But Delia is all business. 

 

“Are you sure you’re all right?” 

 

Patsy nods, wary, but trusting of Delia through all things. 

 

“A bit shaken at meeting the in-laws on their home turf, but you know I feel safer with you than anywhere else.” 

 

Delia grins, and Patsy pictures slouchy bobby socks, and pigtails, and missing front teeth. 

 

“What was your favourite gift as a child?” 

 

Delia’s brow wrinkles in confusion. 

 

“Is this a genuine question or are you avoiding talking about yourself?” 

 

“I’m as good as gold, I swear. Tell me about baby Delia.” 

 

Delia sits back against the headboard, motioning for Patsy to perch in the cleft of her hip. 

 

“My mother gave me  _ The Tale of Peter Rabbit _ one year. She didn’t bother to read it first. I must have memorised it front to back, and taken a trick or two from the protagonist.” 

 

“Hmmmm, I’ll bet, you little scamp.” 

 

Delia giggles. 

 

“It’s sort of amazing how you can make that sound so... “ 

 

“Yes, Delia?” 

 

(Patsy accentuates the husk in her voice brought on by fatigue and stress smoking into something more alluring.) 

 

“You know good and well what I mean,” Delia mock-scolds. 

 

“And  _ you _ know good and well that nothing whatsoever will come of it, you big scamp.” 

 

Delia sighs dramatically, settling for chaste hand-holding. 

 

“You know I love you more than the air I breathe and the ground I walk on, don’t you?” 

 

Patsy smiles, closing her eyes for a bit of peace. 

 

“I do, but that doesn’t mean you ought not tell me at every available opportunity.” 

_

 

The service is strange, but lovely. 

 

Patsy feels a bit out-of-her body for it all, observant but not engaged, captivated by Delia’s soft, clear voice as she sings in a language she cannot understand. 

 

She passes the time studying women’s dresses, counting the number of hymnals in the pews, estimating how many seconds until she can feasibly run out for a smoke. 

 

She sees how people find this sort of thing comforting, inspiring and illuminating even. 

But the gospel leaves her hollow and lonely. 

 

She’s never felt any desire to be saved or absolved of her sins. 

(She’d rather carry them as a reminder. Forgiveness too often begets forgetfulness.)

 

Delia scoots as close as decorum will allow, nudges her ankle with the toe of her stocking. Reminds her, “ _ I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.”  _

 

Patsy’s only awareness that the ritual has ended is the sudden influx of the congregation into the parish hall. 

 

As these things go, half the people are twice-a-yearers, who quickly disappear into darkness lest they be asked back next Sunday. But Mrs. Busby holds court with her band of churchgoing friends. 

 

(Well, the way Delia talks, friendship might be too gentle a label.) 

 

She and Delia are stood towards the back, sipping cider and trying to ignore the pointed stares in their direction. 

 

When a stranger walks up to her with all the purpose in the world, declaring “Oh, you poor thing, you must be so grateful for Enid’s kindness,” the jig is up. 

 

Of  _ course  _ none of this was earnest. She’s a bloody pity token. 

 

Patsy, a product of her raising, agrees with the woman and thanks her for her sympathy, before making a hasty exit. 

 

(She doesn’t look back for Delia.) 

 

The cigarettes do nothing to eliminate the chill of midnight, but they do singe her throat in a pleasingly painful way. 

 

(Smoke always was an excellent excuse for watery eyes, anyhow.) 

 

“What in the world, Pats?” 

 

Delia looks concerned and confused and Patsy hates how much she loves her, because were she anyone else on this godforsaken earth she would be a pile of ash at the blaze of her words. 

 

“I could ask the same of you, Delia? What in the world am I doing here? Am I your mother’s adopted orphan, so she can gain brownie points with Jesus?” 

 

Delia’s face turns ashen at the realization. 

 

“Shit. I had no idea she’d be so cynical.” 

 

“Yeah, well, maybe you don’t know her as well as you thought you did.” 

 

Delia’s expression falls (it must be six feet under by this point, honestly), apology colors her voice. 

 

“I’m so sorry, Patsy. I’ll speak with her, I promise.” 

 

Patsy turns away and watches her embers die, sizzling on the damp ground. 

 

She has nothing more to say.

 

_ 

 

The journey home is tense, to say the least, but Enid fills the silence with talk of so-and-so’s grandchildren, and what’s-her-name’s weight gain, and soon enough they’re home, and Patsy excuses herself and goes to bed. 

 

(Or rather, she lies in the darkness and fumes.) 

 

Delia creeps in quietly, about half an hour later. 

 

“Come on, Pats, don’t be like that.” 

 

“I’m asleep.” 

 

“And I’m the Queen.” 

 

Patsy covers her head with the blanket. 

 

“I’m allowed to be upset,” she asserts through a half-inch of wool. 

 

“Yes, yes, you absolutely are,” Delia concedes, “but I don’t want us to go to bed angry.” 

 

Patsy sits up now, defiant. The clouds carry a strange brownish glow that illuminates the shadows of their faces. 

 

“I’m not angry, Delia, I’m  _ hurt.  _ I’m hurt that your mother thinks so poorly of me, and I’m hurt that you’re naive enough to fall for it.” 

 

Delia starts to explain, to apologize for her mother, but she knows it will do no good unless the words come from mam herself. 

 

“Will you at least let me hold you, if you won’t let me apologize?”

 

Patsy shrugs limply, making no move to vacate her cot. 

 

Delia Busby does not back away from a challenge, and she will meet stubbornness with stubbornness every day of the week.  She delicately perches on the edge of the cot, wrapping her arms around Patsy, and slowly lowering the two of them into a supine position. 

 

“We’ll do it your way then.” 

 

Patsy can’t help but smile, even as tears flow down her cheeks. 

 

“You’re infuriating. I love you.” 

 

_

 

Patsy groans when the pale sunlight hits her eyes. Her body aches like she’s slept in her suitcase. Delia’s warm breath tickles the back of her neck, her arm draped protectively over Patsy’s torso. 

 

Her effort to untangle herself without disturbing the brunette ends up with both of them on the floor, but after her confusion subsides, Delia just giggles. 

 

“Remind me to just carry you to the bed next time,” Delia grunts. 

 

“I assure you Delia, there will never again be a situation in which a cot is an option. Mark my words.” 

 

“You mean we’re not going camping for our next holiday?” 

 

Patsy’s death glare would put Scrooge to shame. 

_

 

Delia’s parents are stood in the kitchen when they make their way down the hall. 

 

“Good morning, girls,” Enid calls, faux cheer coloring her voice. 

 

(Patsy doesn’t miss the worry furrowing her brow.) 

 

“Happy Christmas!” Mr. Busby greets, enthusiasm sincere. 

 

“Patsy, Delia and her father have a tradition of making me Christmas breakfast. Do you- do you suppose we could take a little walk to stay out of their way?” 

 

Her voice brings recollections of Delia’s accident- the fear and timidity, most of all the uncertainty, in the woman’s tone. 

 

She looks for Delia for guidance, before accepting. 

 

“I think that might be nice.” 

 

The walk in silence for a minute, until they’re well out of earshot or eyesight from the house.

 

“I’m afraid I’ve been a bit unfair to you Patsy- well, more than a bit, if I’m being honest.”

 

Patsy is in no mood to acquiesce just yet. 

 

“Is that so?” 

 

“I know what you and Delia are to each other, and I don’t claim to understand, but I do know that you aren’t going anywhere. But for all that I might accept, other people aren’t so kind, I’m sure you know that.” 

 

Patsy hardens her face, preparing for whatever gentle let-down the woman has prepared on behalf of her daughter. 

 

“I’d rather have you here under false pretenses than not have you here at all, if that’s what makes Delia happy. It was wrong of me to talk you up like that to everyone, but I felt it was the best way to keep them from asking the wrong sort of questions.” 

 

“I think I’d believe you more if I felt that Delia cared the slightest what those women think of her.” 

 

Enid blushes in shame. 

 

“I think you’re the only person who’s esteem she really cares about. And she’d be absolutely gutted if anything I did hurt her in your eyes. So please, accept my apology on Delia’s account. I’m sorry I can’t be as brave as she is.” 

 

Patsy wrings her hands, weighing whether to fuel her grudge or let the resentment go. 

 

“Delia would get so angry when I would make excuses. Turn away from her in public, or snap at her in front of our friends when she was only trying to be kind. I suppose it would be unfair to expect better of you than I’ve demonstrated myself.” 

 

Enid nods, and they stop, preparing to turn back. 

 

“I don’t pity you, Patsy, I know you don’t want or need that or anything else besides. But I would like you to feel you’re a part of our family, so long as you’re a part of Delia’s life.” 

 

“I appreciate that,” Patsy answers coldly. 

 

(Mrs. Busby’s likes are still of no particular concern to her.) 

 

“I understand that you probably aren’t anxious to return to Wales any time soon. But, perhaps, next year, we could come to see you in London? Delia will be through with her training then- there’s no reason you two couldn’t find another flat.” 

 

“I-  _ We’ll- _ think about it,” Patsy offers, the spindliest of olive branches. 

 

“Thank you,” Mrs. Busby murmurs. 

 

They straighten their shoulders in tandem, putting on brave faces for the better halves that await them inside. 

 

“You’re just in time!” 

 

Mr. Busby practically shoves a plate of sausages into Patsy’s stomach. 

 

Mrs. Busby and Delia alternate concerned looks at her through breakfast, but Patsy succumbs to the joy of the occasion. Delia’s father delights in each bite of the meal, and each moment with “his girls,” as he keeps referring to the three of them. 

 

(That Patsy should not be included in the party never occurred to him. She’s frankly unsure of who on earth he thinks she is, but friendliness is better than scorn.) 

 

Patsy hadn’t expected gifts from the Busby’s- she felt imposing enough as is, but Mr. Busby proudly presents her with a bolt of emerald silk. 

 

“See, I’ll just take your measurements before you go and then I can send the finished product through the post.” 

 

It’s a bit unconventional, but thoughtful, insofar as “things women probably like” go. 

 

Mrs. Busby presents a heavier parcel, instructing her and Delia that it’s meant for them to share. 

 

China. 

 

Sleek, modern, and elegant. 

 

“I don’t know where on earth we’ll keep it…” Delia mutters, nonetheless admiring the wares. 

 

Patsy grabs her hand, reassuringly. 

 

“I’m sure we’ll find the right place, eventually.” 

 

She meets Mrs. Busby’s nervous stare, nodding her approval. 

  
There are worse things to compromise on than love for Delia Busby. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um thanks for spending time with these fictional characters with me! the real word fucking sucks right now and i am all for therapeutic escapism. 
> 
> prompts and headcanons always welcome on here and on tumblr @blueblue-baby


	23. This Nearly Was Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Tumblr: " very much still care about Patsy and Delia. What have they been up to since their rather interesting Busby family Christmas?" 
> 
> Or, an attempt to address what appears to be a distinct possibility of little-to-no Patsy screentime in S7...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH WOW I AM RUSTY AFTER BEING AWAY SO LONG I AM SO SORRY BBS 
> 
> also literally sorry for everything about my country rn i promise there are lots of good people in the states

“It’s not like we’re moving to New Zealand, Trix.”

 

“I know, but Barbara’s moved out, just when we really sorted out everything properly, and Delia, you’re one of the girls now, too, and well, I’m sort of the old maid now, aren’t I?”

 

Patsy arches a brow at Delia, who is quick to reassure their bottle-blonde companion.

 

“I think Christopher might object to that, don’t you? I daresay we could place bets on when your room will be empty.”

 

“And as long as I’m here,” Nurse Crane interjects, “ I believe the title of Old Maid is taken.”

 

Trixie blushes, rolling her eyes to hide the gamut of emotions she’s experiencing.

 

“You lot always were too clever to argue with. Patsy, Delia, I’m happy for you, honestly, but I will miss very much having you around. For the good times as well as the bad.”

 

Delia, ever the natural caregiver, rests a hand comfortingly on Trixie’s shoulder.

 

“We’re only a phone call away, Trix. Walking distance, even. And if you think you’re going to get out of tea and gossip _chez nous_ you’ve got another think coming.”

 

“You’re invited as well, Phyllis,” Patsy reassures.

 

The older nurse frowns.

 

“I can’t say I’m much one for gossip, but I do appreciate a nice scone from time to time. I’ll see what my schedule permits. But I suppose that’s enough dilly-dallying- shall we load the last of it in the motorcar so we can be back by dinner?”

 

_

 

“Loathe though we are to speak it, tonight is our last with Nurses Mount and Busby in Nonnatus House.”

 

Sister Julienne clears her throat before continuing her toast.

 

“The lord often sends us gifts in packages we don’t necessarily appreciate. Nurse Busby,” she turns to Delia,”however unfortunate the circumstances which brought you under this roof, we are grateful for your presence. And more grateful still that you’ve accepted my offer to help us fill the void left by Nurse Mount’s resignation.”

 

Swallowing, she turns to Patsy, whose calm composure shows the small signs of breaking- a faint quiver of the lip, a slight shine to her eye.

 

“Nurse Mount, I’m not sure any of us knew quite what to expect when first we met you.”

 

(The table laughs at the memory of the brash redhead, softened through the lens of love.)

 

“But you’ve proven a wonderful midwife, and an exceptional young woman. I hope that wherever you decide to head next, you won’t leave Nonnatus far behind.”

 

“I could never,” Patsy manages to sniffle, between unbidden tears.

 

“I wonder,” Monica Joan interjects, “If your new abode might have a television- perhaps a newer model than the one to which I am accustomed?”

 

“I’m sorry, sister,” Delia apologizes, “we’re stuck with just a record player at the moment. But you’ll be the first to know if we upgrade to visual media.”

 

Monica Joan nods, satisfied that the younger woman will keep her word. Her assessments of character have yet to be found wanting.

 

Patsy squeezes Delia’s hand ‘thanks’ under the table, the give one more round of hugs, and then, there it is, the end of an era.

_

 

The silence of the walk to their new flat feels endless and heavy, expectation and disappointment and hope co-mingling in a thick smog of emotion.

 

“I can’t believe this is actually happening.”

 

“Good thing we’re walking this time, eh, Pats?”

 

“How you can joke about such things is beyond me.”

 

“I’m sorry. I suppose the fact that I don’t actually remember the accident helps my sense of humour. But my Patsy-sense is telling me that you’re more upset by something else. Spill.”

 

Patsy shrugs, half-smiling.

 

“I’m happy, Delia. So happy, but I don’t know, I suppose this is what going away from home is supposed to feel like, coming-of-age or what have you.”

 

Delia thinks back to her own departure from Wales, the tight grip of her mother’s fingers through the cotton of her dress. The lump in her throat that fought against the excitement in her chest for half the way to London.

 

“You can go back anytime.”

 

Patsy nods, shadow bobbing along the pavement.

 

“But it won’t be the same.”

 

“No, it won’t. But neither are you.”

 

Patsy inhales deeply as she turns the key in the lock, closing her eyes and savouring the anticipation.

 

“It smells like bleach,” Delia smiles into her shoulder blades, “and you.”

 

_

 

In daydreams about this moment, this night, Patsy’s imagination had often veered toward the untoward. Visions of deadbolts and Delia in various states of undress had passed many a long, lonely night in Nonnatus.

 

But in the moment, knowing that this time, surely, the universe would be more kind (and that they were perhaps more prepared for any sort of cruelty), she relishes  chaster touches.

 

Brushing her hand against Delia’s as they unbox china:

 

“I would ask that you give me at least a week to enjoy nesting with you before we even begin thinking of hosting your mother.”

 

“Scout’s honor.”

 

“Oh god, do I owe it to Phyllis to resume Akelah duties?”

 

“I would ask that you not mention Phyllis or the Cubs for at least forty-eight hours. You know good and well I have tomorrow off, and I have plans for you.”

 

Kissing her cheek as she lights the furnace:

 

“What happened to ‘I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm?’”

 

“Kay Starr’s not a nurse, Pats. Love is no match against hypothermia.”

Snuggling under the quilts, Delia’s cold feet rubbing against her calves.

 

“What happened to worrying over hypothermia?”

 

“I can’t sleep with socks on. Sleep deprivation is dangerous too.”

 

“And what of human-to-human frostbite?”

 

“No such thing, Pats,” Delia grumbles, exhaustion quickly setting in as she drapes an arm and a leg across the the protesting redhead.

 

“I like being under the covers with you, Deels.”

 

“Mmmmph. Easier to make sure you don’t run off.”

 

“I’m not going anywhere.”

 

“You say that now, but we haven’t tried to feed ourselves yet.”

 

“You know the french have a saying, to live on love and fresh water.”

 

“Again Pats, not medically possible. Good night.”

 

“I love you.”

 

“Mmmmm that’s nice. I could get used to that.”

 

“You’d very well better.”

 

Delia mewls contentedly, burrowing her face further into Patsy’s neck.

 

“I can put on socks if it makes you happy.”

 

Patsy responds by entwining her legs with Delia’s, absorbing the chill gallantly.

 

“I’m already deliriously happy- anything else could be dangerous.”

 

She waits for Delia’s sarcastic response on the physiological impossibility of such things, but all she’s met with are faint snores and warm breath.

 

“Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've got to do girls' night at the flat next, right?


End file.
